


Fleeing Sherlock

by Dragonlitterchanger



Series: April Fools - The Joke Is On You [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dinner, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mystrade fluff, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1740263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonlitterchanger/pseuds/Dragonlitterchanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow up to April's Fool. Lestrade really needs to keep away from Sherlock for a while, and he owes Mycroft 'anything'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fleeing Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Fleeing Sherlock 逃离夏洛克](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287132) by [Ivylui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivylui/pseuds/Ivylui)
  * Inspired by [April's Fool](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543757) by [distantstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight), [Dragonlitterchanger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonlitterchanger/pseuds/Dragonlitterchanger). 



> Please read Aprils Fool first, or some elements of this story will seem meaningless. Unless you’re just here for the smut, in that case, read away.

 

_London, 17th April_

”Please get in, sir.” The request was delivered in a voice that brooked no argument, and it definitely did not sound like a question. Lestrade sighed, and ducked into the back seat of the black car, already dreading whatever awaited him.

They rode in silence for almost half an hour, till the car pulled up in front of a drab grey building in Vauxhall, and Anthea got out without a word.

”Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, as the long slinky legs slid into the car, announcing the imminent arrival of the other half of Holmes senior.

“Good afternoon, Gregory,” Mycroft answered in his usual dry, flat tone of voice that informed the world how utterly boring it was to him without having to utilize the necessary words.

“So?” he prompted, and had to wait till Mycroft had finished perusing the front page of The Financial Times and neatly folded the newspaper into his lap.

“So, anything apparently.” Lestrade thought he could almost detect the hint of a faint smile in the corner of Mycroft Holmes’s left lip. “I thought I had better get you out of town. Your commander has been informed.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, feeling sure that they were very eloquent and questioning, but Mycroft just opened the paper and read on. Lestrade gave up on subtleties. They had never worked on a Holmes anyway. “Where are we going, Mr Holmes? Do you need help with criminal elements? Need a shelf hung in your country home? Or does your garden need mowing?” He feared the worst. _Please let it not involve kids, animals or laundry._

Finally the other man relented and folded the newspaper into his lap with a sigh. “If you insist, I shall inform you of the itinerary. We are headed for London City airport. We are leaving the country for three to four days. Every now and then I take a sojourn to a resort to rest and restore my soul and body from what I can assure you is very hard work. Since I basically am ‘The British Government’, as my brother has termed it, standard protocol dictates that I bring some form of guard, but I can quite frankly not stand any of my own, and I have therefore decided to bring you for company and…” he sneered a bit, “…protection. I have no idea if you shall prove a palatable companion or not, but my brother assures me, that you are the most intelligent man in the force, which admittedly does not say much. But here’s to hoping.”

Lestrade gaped at him. _A bodyguard? I’m going on a trip as his bloody bodyguard?_ He opened his mouth to protest this position but was forestalled by a raised hand and a piercing glare from ‘the British government’ before his “But...” could slink out.

“You are not to consider yourself a bodyguard, of course. That is just your mission title to fulfil that ridiculous protocol. Your task in the days ahead is rather to try to constitute a pleasant company. At least try. Holidays, I find, can be a slight bit on the tedious side when partaken of alone. In the absence of a friend, I shall avail myself of the ‘anything’ you owe me. This trip just happens to happily coincide with your need to remove yourself from the vicinity of my brother, so two flies, so to speak. If this is acceptable to you, you may call me Mycroft, at least for the duration.” He finished his little speech and tried to raise his lip in a reassuring and friendly smile, which came out as a twitch of his upper lip, reminiscent of how one reacts when a mosquito has stung it.

Lestrade exhaled with relief and leant back in the car, smugly smiling. “I am going on a paid holiday, sanctioned by my commander, to be your social companion? I can absolutely do that,” he grinned, but then sobered up. “But… I’ve nothing with me. No clothes, no toothbrush, no underwear…” Again a forestalling hand was raised.

“You won’t need clothes where we’re going”.

Lestrade broke out into a small cold sweat as the car passed unchecked through the entry to the airport and turned onto the tarmac where a private jet was waiting.

\--- * ---

_Sturup airport, later on, 17th April_

The plane came in over the south of Sweden after only one and a half hours comfortable flight. There was no service on board, he never even saw the captain – and he dearly hoped there was one – but Mycroft had been good company, talking about absolutely nothing of worth, and still making it sound interesting. Intriguing fellow, Greg thought, this could turn out to be fun. In fact, the small talk had been so inspiring that Greg hadn’t even thought to ask about their destination. Oh, yes, and why he wouldn’t be needing clothes. Sleeping dogs best left, he thought as he looked out the window at the dark sky.

They landed and taxied up to one of the low yellow buildings. Mycroft opened the door, and they departed. Beneath the stairs a man approached Greg as soon as he set foot on the ground.

“Mr Lestrade?” the stranger asked.

“I am he,” Greg confirmed.

“I am Sven Gustavsson, from Säpo. Swedish… let’s say special branch. I will be your liaison while you are here with the mark.” He nodded in Mycroft’s direction, said Mycroft busying himself by getting into a dark, waiting car while the driver shifted luggage from the plane to the car. “Here’s your permit to carry your gun while in Sweden, but please do not fire it. You will not believe the piles of paperwork that would come with that, and I would make you do it yourself. Ok?” he finished, his English spoken with a light to moderate accent, betraying that this was not his first dealing with foreigners.

Lestrade just nodded. He could well believe the man.

“And,” Gustavsson continued handing him a calling card, “here’s my contact info. I will be around, but you won’t see me. If this goes down as usual, I won’t see you either. Enjoy your stay.” And with that he turned and walked to a grey Volvo, parked to the side of the plane.

“Err…right. Thanks, bye… hi… see you?” Greg offered to the man’s back, but just received a wave over the shoulder in reply. Greg smirked, shook it off, pocketed the permit and went to join Mycroft in the car. He opened the back door. “Am I allowed in here with you, or should I be up front?” he queried.

“Don’t be silly,” Mycroft grinned, “you’re supposed to run along side the car,” he said, as he patted the seat next to him. With a shake of his head, Greg got in and the car drove off so silently that he wondered if it even had an engine.

\--- * ---

_Ystad, early evening 17th April_

After less than half an hour the car pulled up next to the entrance of a three storey hotel situated by the ocean, surrounded by trees and sand. As they got out of the car Greg inhaled the salty air heavily and asked “what is this place?”

“It’s called Ystad Saltsjöbad,” Mycroft answered, the name pronounced in what Greg could only assume was perfect Swedish. "It is a spa, and I come here at least twice a year. Early spring and fall, outside of the worst of the tourist season." The word tourist was spoken with the same sentiment and adoration Sherlock usually reserved for Donovan and Anderson.

“Oh.” Greg grew a little pale. “Is that why I won’t need clothes?” He was inexplicably a bit disappointed. He had entertained suppressed thoughts that there may be something wild and exotic behind the reason.

“Indeed,” Mycroft confirmed. “It is customary to wear a cotton housecoat while here, except to dinner of course, but the town does have shops, and I am sure we can find you a decent suit and apparel.” His eyes roamed up and down Greg’s body, appraising and discarding his clothes in less time than it took for lightning to split a tree. “Tonight that will have to do though,” he added as an afterthought while nodding at Greg’s best grey suit.

As they entered the reception the man behind the counter lit up in a big smile. “Mr Holms! It ease verry vonderfull to sea you again. Your sweet is readdy for you. Your keycards is here.” The man handed Mycroft an envelope and with the barest of smiles Mycroft took it and turned towards the hallway, clearly familiar with the place.

He led Greg down a long carpeted corridor and up two flights of steps before stopping before a double door without a number on it. It just said 'Grand suite'. He flicked the card and the door clicked open.

“I am afraid we will have to share a living room and kitchen, but there is a separate room for you.” Mycroft pointed to a door next to the open bathroom door. "I have ordered a toothbrush, shaver, hairdryer, pyjamas and after shave kit for you, hope you don’t mind. You’ll find your housecoat on your bed. My room is over there,” he pointed to another bedroom door, and continued towards it. “Will you join me for a drink when you have refreshened?” he asked.

“Thanks. But I have to make a call first, sorry, but I have staff…” Lestrade apologised but Mycroft waved him off.

“Of course you do. You can’t expect your chief superintendent to handle your work for you, I know. Use the phone in your room,” Mycroft acknowledged. “Meet you out here when you are done. I’m afraid it’s still too cold to be on the balconies at night here, this will have to do,” he gestured at the white sofa and the deep soft chairs.

Lestrade entered his room and put his coat on the white wooden bed, noting that the mattress looked very, very thick. With the sounds of the lapping ocean waves outside his window he figured he would sleep like a baby here.

He grabbed the phone and asked for an outside line, dialling the Yard. He called directly through to the night desk of his office, getting a hold of Sally Donovan after just a few rings.  
“Hi Sally, it’s Greg. Listen…”

“Oi, gov. You never came back to work today. What the heck happened? I was about to send an alert out for you.”

“Yeah, that.” Greg scratched the back of his head, unsure of how to explain it. “I erm… I got a job for someone a bit higher up, and I’ll be gone, erm, undercover - _yes that would do_  - for a few days. In foreign lands no less,” he grinned.

“Where are you?” Donovan was openly curious. “Someone needs to know in case we need you urgently…!”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m at Vueschtat Salschoobath, or something like that, but just call me on my own phone, I’ll keep it charged.”

“You’re where?” she demanded, uncomprehending.

“Sweden!” he cut it down to. “But listen now, I need you to head up the team on the Croydon case while I’m gone. Text me all major developments, but otherwise, take the lead, understand?”

“Me?” Donovan was delighted and surprised, and quite liking this unplanned away trip. Just wait till Andersson found out. Oh, she was going to boss him around good. She giggled. “Ta’ gov. Won’t let you down. How about incoming cases?”

“Tell desk we’re not taking any till I’m back. The commander should actually have us covered. If pressed, give them to the Doncaster twins. ‘Bout time they earned their keep. Ok? Take care and see you in a few. Bye.”

He hung up and went out to the living room where Mycroft was pouring a couple of glasses of what looked like a nice bubbly.

“Welcome back. Hungry? Dinner is in half an hour.”

Oh, I can get used to this, Greg thought quite happily, accepting the proffered glass with his trademark blinding smile.


	2. Lets have dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, dinnertime...

_What a stroke of luck! Gregory right here with him, at his favourite spa. And actually needing his help_. Mycroft could hardly stop smiling as he opened the door to receive his luggage from the driver, quickly storing it in his room. Returning to the living room he was relieved to find that they had stocked his wine bar according to his usual standard. He chose a modest Louis Roederer Brut Premier and fiddled the cork out by holding it still and rotating the bottle slowly.  He did detest the show-offs who would let a champagne cork fly. He called the restaurant to make a booking when he detected a small growl from his stomach. It was getting rather late for dinner, he noticed.

Still smiling he went to the kitchen to get a couple of flute glasses. He was considering sending Sherlock a bottle of Champagne and some fruit from Harrods to thank him for scaring Gregory so thoroughly into his web. But then he rather thought it would be best if he and the detective inspector just slipped off the radar as far as his brother was concerned, at least for a while. He had, of course, deleted the incriminating sound bite that Gregory had copied him on, he just hadn’t told Sherlock about that yet. Mycroft lived in a world where leverage was everything, and you didn’t just give it up without prodding it a bit first.  
  
He had wanted to get better acquainted with Gregory since Sherlock had introduced them, recommending him as a liaison between the operating procedures of the Yard and Mycroft’s sometimes rather less formal interpretation of the law and how it applied to his department. Things had gone a lot smoother on undercover operations since. Gregory seemed competent, smart enough to be tolerable and then there was that smile. Since the first time he saw it, he had responded surprisingly to it; he often found himself smiling back. Mycroft reigned himself in just in time to stop a shiver from running down his spine, and luckily also just in time to be on the receiving end of said smile as Gregory emerged from his room.

Mycroft smiled back and handed him his glass. “Welcome back,” he said, adding “Hungry? Dinner is in half an hour.” Once again he was rewarded with a smile, and he decided that Gregory could have extra pudding tonight.

Despite the cold, they did go out onto the balcony with their drinks, enjoying the brisk April wind and the salty smell of the Baltic ocean. He was relieved to find Gregory relaxed and talkative, not at all like the civil servants that pestered his everyday life with mind numbingly boring conversation and nervous attitudes.

“Shall we?” Mycroft gestured to the door, putting his flute down on the table. “We are eating in Port tonight, it’s a mix of American and Swedish cuisine, but I’m sure we can find a way to forgive them. At least it’s Newport,” he added.

“Oh, I don’t know a thing about Swedish cuisine and American means burgers to me, I’m afraid,” Greg answered. “But I can go for burgers,” he gladly announced as they went down the stairs.

“Yes, maybe, some day.” Mycroft was horrified at the thought. He had tried one once. “Let’s just eat a la carte tonight,” he said as they entered the restaurant on the ground floor. This time of year, and this time of night there was only a few patrons there, so they were able to get a window seat with soft, deep chairs and a cosy lantern. A waiter was by their side immediately.

“Good evening Mr Holmes,” he nodded at Mycroft, “and sir,” he said, nodding at Greg. “Would you like to see the menu?” he offered, as he handed them each a card. “Would you like something from the bar while you decide?”

Mycroft studied the card for a moment. “Hmm yes, I’ll have a cranberry and bitter,” Mycroft informed him. “You, Gregory?”

“Erm… I … ok, what the hay. I’ll try a Melon and Patrón. Sounds fun,” he grinned at Mycroft, who pretended not to care too much about the amount of flashy teeth faffing about the table.

“So, what is good here?” Greg seemed relieved to see that the menu was printed in English as well as Swedish, and studied it carefully.  
  
“Well, the fish obviously,” Mycroft said with a nod towards the ocean outside, “but there are other noteworthy elements as well. Would you allow me to order for you? I do know these dishes quite well. If you ‘d rather not I quite under…”  
  
“No, that would be brilliant.” Gregory lowered his menu. Mycroft noticed how quickly he relinquished that privilege and concluded that Gregory might worry about the cost of these items. This was not a restaurant you frequented often on a policeman’s salary.

 “Wonderful,” Mycroft declared with a little smile. “Just leave it to me then.” As their drinks arrived he raised his glass and toasted them. “To a hopefully nice couple of relaxing days.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Greg intoned and bent his glass to gently touch Mycroft’s.

“Just so we are clear, Gregory, I want you to relax and have a good time. Everything here is paid for, most of it prepaid even, so just enjoy yourself. There will be no bill.”

“Damn you…” Greg spurted into his glass. “For a second I forgot who’s brother you are. Could you stop reading my mind, please?” He smiled to take the sting off.

“Probably not,” Mycroft admitted and bent to study the menu. After a few minutes, he beckoned the waiter over.  He arrived so fast that Greg bent down to see if he was wearing roller skates. Well, it was an American themed restaurant after all. But he wasn’t.  
  
Mycroft ordered with the air of someone used to giving a lot of orders. “Mr Lestrade will start with the smoked salmon and cured cucumber, and I will entrée on the poached asparagus with lumpfish. We shall both have the Saithe fillet for the main, and Mr Lestrade will round off with a sticky toffee pudding.” He smiled at Gregory. “Alas I must abstain from pudding most days, the weight you see.” He said and padded his flat stomach. In fact, he felt a little too high strung to ingest sugar.  
  
The waiter nodded and retrieved the menus.  “And to drink, sir?”  
  
“Oh, tonight I think we’ll just have the wine menu if you’d be so kind. But could you send me the stock list of my private cellar selection to my room for tomorrow, thank you.”

“Certainly sir,” the waiter said with a broad smile towards Mycroft and walked off.

“Is he one of the people I have to guard you against?” Greg wondered out loud.

“Huh, what?” Mycroft asked, rather startled.

“He is completely flirting with you, haven’t you noticed? Or are Swedes like that?” Greg grinned.

“He is most certainly not!” Mycroft protested. _I am NOT blushing_ , he told himself and utterly failed to not. He hid his embarrassment behind his glass, taking small sips while studiously looking out at the dark ocean.

If Greg had any thoughts about it he kept them to himself, also just sipping his drink, an ever so small smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Your asparagus, sir,” the waiter said as he slid the plate in front of Mycroft, quickly followed by Gregory’s salmon. Mycroft was grateful for the distraction. He finished his drink and smiled at the waiter, somewhat startled as he recognised the flirtatious answering smile. Well, it served him well. He should not have forgotten that Gregory was a detective when all was said and done. He made a mental note to sharpen up around him.

“The wine menu offers you a choice between a Riesling and Chablis. What would you prefer?” the waiter asked, to whit Mycroft quickly replied, “well, obviously the Riesling for me, and the Chablis for my guest,” at least hoping that would impress Gregory enough to forget the blushing, _that hadn’t happened_.

When the wine had been poured they dug into their entrees. Greg took one tentative bite of the salmon, with a bit of the cucumber, and then looked up at Mycroft, his eyes positively shining. “This is, oh, this is just! Did I say burger earlier? With this mouth?” He chewed happily and swallowed. “I’m sorry, that should not have occupied the same space as this salmon. What _have_ they done to it?” He stopped talking long enough to take a swig of the wine and moaned, deeply and heartfelt, his eyes closed tight with an almost debauched facial expression. “My mouth just exploded,” he announced, his eyes still closed.

Mycroft found himself ordering a pitcher of ice water brought to the table immediately.

He had no memory of how he actually cut, lifted the food to his mouth, chewed and swallowed his starter, or indeed what it tasted like but he could recount every moan and soft exclamation Gregory made while eating his. No actual words were exchanged, but a whole conversation was constructed with only guttural hums and ahs, and a few nods. A single clink of glasses seemed to round off their new found gastronomical camaraderie till they put down their knives and forks almost simultaneously.

“Right. I could die a happy man now,” Greg grinned as he downed the last dollop of wine in his glass.

“Oh, do wait till we’ve at least had the main course,” Mycroft grinned back, chewing on yet an ice cube, cruelly crushing it between his teeth. 

The waiter was by their side immediately, removing the plates, citing the wine menu.

“We have a particularly nice, yet young Chardonnay for the fillet, if you would?” he raised an enquiring and by now obvious flirtatious eyebrow at Mycroft who just nodded, and very pointedly did not lift his gaze from Gregory, sending a signal that could have been picked up by a transistor radio that was running low on batteries in Zimbabwe.

 “Yes, sir.” The waiter concluded and accepted his loss while he hurried away to the bar, retrieving the wine, nodding at a waitress to bring the two main dishes.

Again they ate in almost silence, broken by delighted moans from Greg, now and then lifting his head to praise the food or the wine, or the view, which was a little odd since it was now pitch black outside, and not even the white tips of the waves were visible.

“I think you will like it here,” Mycroft chuckled, enjoying the obvious pleasure Gregory was taking from this. He had never been in a position to spoil someone to this degree, and he rather enjoyed it. He could hardly wait to expose Gregory to some of the rare and exquisite wines from his own small selection that he kept here.

As the waiter cleared the plates Mycroft ordered a glass of Cognac for himself and a dessert wine for Gregory. “Trust me,” he said and received a nod and a grin in reward. He felt reimbursed in full.

While Greg ate his dessert Mycroft sipped his Cognac, trying to talk to him through the hums and oh’s Greg emitted while suffering from the attack on his taste buds.

“We should probably…. Gregory? Are you listening? I said we should probably not stay up too late. I have a few plans for both of us tomorrow. Most treatments here require pre-booking, so Anthea busied herself while we were airborne.” He checked the messages on his phone. “She has had fun with the itinerary and my credit card, the little minx, so your first session is at nine in the morning. And so is mine. Meaning we should be back down here for breakfast no later than …. Gregory, can you stop humming for just two seconds…? Please?” Mycroft noted the bright eyes burning into his and found himself shaking his head, giggling at Gregory’s enjoyment of the pudding, though he could not quite rid himself of the feeling that he was dining with a Labradoodle. _A very broad shouldered, well built, eye piercing, tooth killing, straight-backed, long-legged, bite worthy, cuddleable Labradoodle._    Mycroft looked into the pitcher and noticed that all the ice was already gone. He almost didn’t whimper.

“So breakfast at eight would be acceptable?” He asked in a slightly shaky voice.  
  
“Mmm, fine. Though I don’t think I shall ever eat again,” Greg grinned over the last of the pudding. “Shall we go upstairs then?”

“Quite.” Mycroft agreed and got up; noticing there was no one else in the restaurant. They quickly made it to their suite, and bid each other goodnight, Greg thanking him profusely for a lovely dinner, and then they disappeared into their separate bedrooms.

Mycroft took a few moments to unpack and hang the contents of his suitcase, before taking a quick, cold shower and crawling into his too big bed. He spent some fidgety long minutes wondering why he reacted so to Gregory’s smile. It was not like he was some toothpaste model. He was a detective inspector. A rather good one. And Mycroft had only brought him along to have stimulating, intellectual company. _Right?_ That question kept him awake rather longer than he had planned but eventually the lapping waves claimed his brain patterns, and they finally slowed down into the first sleep cycle of the night.


	3. The heat of grapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wonderful massage, a bit of a shopping spree and an interesting development at dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may want to seek out a supermarket with a well stocked fruit section after this. Enjoy.

 

_Ystad – 18 th of April, morning_

“I can’t believe I can eat this much again so soon,” Greg laughed as he filled his plate from the breakfast buffet, ladling it with prince sausages, fried mushrooms, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, crispy bacon, bread, jam and butter. He really had been so full last night that he’d stowed away any thoughts of breakfast but the enticing smell of the breakfast buffet had never the less made his stomach growl.  
  
Mycroft had just smiled back and added another slice of cucumber to his plate like he of all people needed a diet. He was already whippet thin and sleek. Greg held out a forkful of bacon to him, but he just shook his head and went on to the fruit section. Greg, however, contemplated putting some of the small pancakes next to his eggs.

“Ease up, Gregory,” Mycroft grinned. “We have almost an hour before the spa appointments. There is plenty of time to replenish should you require more. Shall you take tea or coffee?”

“Oh yes. Tea, please. Earl Grey. Plain!” He warned. “If you add so much of as a touch of strawberry or anyberry to it I’ll personally dunk you in the ocean,” he grinned. “Twice!” he added.

“Two teas, Earl Grey, coming right up,” Mycroft answered, readying two cups from the buffet, pouring milk and one spoonful of brown sugar in Greg’s cup. Greg was still too attached to the mattress that had only very recently, and so reluctantly, let go of his backside to wonder how Mycroft knew that was his preference.

They ate slowly, both of them admiring the birth of the early spring morning over the ocean and the way the pale sun played on the waves. Mycroft’s eyes seemed to reflect the steel grey of the water and Gregory found himself unaccountably lost for several seconds staring at them while munching on the buttered bun in his hand. Was that really the colour of his eyes, or was it the ocean light reflecting in them? Or off that pale smooth skin, so smooth. More smooth than a man’s skin ought to be, and so complimentary of those high cheekbones, that fit so well under those steel grey eyes, and those very, very long lashes and the ... “

“Gregory?”

“Huh?”

“What are you… ?”

“Huh? What? What am I what?”

“You are rather staring at me. Is there something untoward on my face?” Mycroft seemed abhorred and his fingers squirrelled around for a napkin.

“Err… no… err... nothing that shouldn’t be there. Sorry, was I really staring?” Greg apologised and looked everywhere but at Mycroft’s face, before they settled on the window _. Because those waves really were so much more fascinating now, weren’t they? They sort of rolled, and stuff... And did not smell of something very expensive and looking smooth._

 “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” Mycroft said, huffing away the moment.

“Oh. I was just… you know, thinking. Nice here. Nice yes... I mean nice here as in nice view, nice ocean. Good bread.” Greg offered. “REALLY good bread,” he hurried to add, looking out at the ocean, concentrating on a seagull that seemed to know where it was going. _Which was good. Good with things that knew where they were going - his train of thought notably not being among them._

“So, if you are done, shall we go change and venture down to the spa?” Mycroft suggested. “I do hope you will enjoy .. excuse me.” He said as his phone rang. “Yes? Hmm? Oh, again? No, not this time, just follow up, thank you”. He put the phone away and returned his attention to Greg. “So, let’s away, if you’re quite done? I was thinking we could perhaps venture downtown later in the day to attire you properly if you don’t mind?”

“Sure, fine,” Greg began, but then thought better of it. “Wait, attire me? Am I being vulcanised or taking part in a makeover candid camera programme?” he wondered.

“Makeover? Surely not. One proper suit has certainly never harmed anyone. As for hidden cameras, I refer you to your local colleagues here. I have no idea how thorough they are, I can assure you. Nor do I care. I doubt they are following us downtown, though. There’s a rather nice place we could stop for lunch and…”

“Mycroft! Are you trying to fatten me up for slaughter? We’ve done little else but eat!” Greg grinned.

“Right. We should probably go for a run or a swim. If you’re up for it after your treatment, that is,” Mycroft smiled and got up.

\--- * ---

Two hours later Greg lay supple, shining and completely boneless on a huge four-poster bed, next to Mycroft, next to six or seven other people in a long row of broad four poster beds, listening to soothing music, sipping cucumber water.  
  
“What was it Anthea called that?” he asked again, fighting to keep his eyes open.  
  
 “Erm…, “ Mycroft checked the printed programme,  “the total tranquillity anti-stress treatment”.

“Yeah,” Greg agreed.

“Indeed,” Mycroft emphasised.

They didn’t speak again for the next forty-five minutes. 

“Can I interest you in a swim?” Mycroft wondered. “The indoor pool is very warm, its’ almost like getting into a tub.”

“Hmm,” Greg answered, coaxing his mind back to some form of coherency. “Might be a nice way to wake up a little. Is it far?”

“Almost ten feet,” Mycroft grinned. “Think you can make it?”

“Doubt it,” Greg admitted, but got up anyway, heading for the pool area.

\--- * ---

 _London_ _18 th of April_

“Where is he? Huh?” Sherlock paced, checking his phone for the seventeenth time in half an hour, generally driving John up the wall. But he was used to living a foot or two off the ground on the tapestry, so he just shrugged and went on with the article he was reading.

 “Why don’t you text Lestrade and ask?” John was extraordinarily bad at hiding his chuckles, thinking of the sound that would set off on Lestrade’s phone.

“You are dull!” Sherlock shouted at him and texted Mycroft again. “Where the heck is he? I need to get into those files,” he hissed.

“We gave him a month, remember?” John tried to sound patient. “You started the teasing. You really have to be able to be on the receiving end sometimes.”

“With Lestrade, maybe, but I can not allow my brother possession of that sound bite. I can only begin to imagine the disasters he can conjure up with it. For an interminably long time.” Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, mouth open. “Oh! Oh! John! You don’t think that’s why he’s disappeared, do you? He’s already up to some devilish mischief, like exposing this to my alma mater or something dreadfully awful?” Sherlock was quite pale.

“Idiot,” was John’s quiet comment as he scanned the newspaper for something more interesting to read than gossip.

“I must find him. I’m going to look up Anthea”.  
  
John looked up just in time to see Sherlock and coat bounding down the stairs before he returned to his paper with a sigh of solitary contentment.

\---- * ----

_Downtown Ystad, Öbergs -  men’s fashion shop, 18 th of April_

  
“Ralph Lauren or Armani, what do you think?” Mycroft asked the shop attendant, both of them looking Greg over like he was a sports car that needed retrofitting.

Greg sighed. “I would have been perfectly fine shopping over there.“ He pointed to the much more mainstream men’s shop across the street but was rewarded with a huff from Mycroft and a pair of rolling eyes from the attendant.

“They sell plaid shirts, Gregory. Three for the price of two. For the love of…” Mycroft shook his head and looked back at the attendant. “So, Armani?”

“Actually, I think Ralph Lauren, if you will allow me to show you this suit. We just got it last week.” He brought out a gorgeous dark grey, slightly shiny suit of a material that Greg bet wouldn’t take kindly to a washing machine.

 “Would you try it on, please, Gregory.” Mycroft ‘asked’, handing him a shirt he had picked out for it.

“I can’t… it’s really not in my price…” Greg feebly protested.

“Hush, now. I told you there would be no expenses for you on this trip. It’s merely clothing, but that is no reason not to do it properly.” Mycroft admonished, pushing Gregory, shirt and suit into the back of the shop.

It, of course, fit him perfectly, and it felt like wearing a silk worm clinging to his legs. The attendant very wisely hid all price marks from Greg as he helped him dress, bringing him a selection of ties to choose from. When Mycroft saw the result he just nodded sharply once, handing his credit card to the attendant, before allowing himself a small smile at Gregory.

“So, are you my sugar daddy now?” Greg grinned.

“Wh..what?” Mycroft looked the spitting image of an utterly perplexed British gentleman, caught off guard.

“Oh, sorry. Just kidding you. I don’t know how to thank you. Just me being clumsy about it. But this is… I’ve never worn anything like this. Not even undercover. Can I get a plastic coating so I don’t ruin it?” He laughed, resisting the temptation to feel himself up in the lush material.

“You won’t need it. You’ll be fine. And of course, the hotel has dry cleaning, if you do have an accident.” Mycroft informed him, a little curtly. “Now, shall we stroll around the town a bit before returning for dinner? There is a very interesting monastery and museum here, and some quaint old houses.”

Greg had begun to recognise Mycroft’s non-questions and just nodded amiably, holding the door open for Mycroft as he grabbed the bag with his old, now no longer best suit in it.

The afternoon passed too quickly, Greg felt. He had been completely absorbed by the monastery and the feeling of history that permeated the place, and he could have walked around the small streets looking at the ancient houses for days. But it started getting really cold as the sun set, so they grabbed a taxi back to the hotel.

“No need for you to change for dinner,” Mycroft had smiled at him, “but if you would kindly allow me some time to freshen up?”

“What? Yes of course?” Greg was astounded that Mycroft had asked. An actual question. He wondered what would have happened if he’d said no, and demanded they descend on the restaurant immediately. _Better not travel that road_ , he told himself, _you may not like the insane asylum at the end of it._

Mycroft had changed into a pitch black suit with a slightly blue shirt, and of course his school tie. He looked stunning, and Greg was suddenly glad that he had a new suit. He felt he would have stood out like a sore thumb in his old one. He straightened his back a little more than usual and fell in step with Mycroft as they headed down to the restaurant.

They were given the same nice table as the previous evening, and again Mycroft offered to order, which Greg accepted thankfully.

They had some outstanding shellfish and a fantastic piece of veal, all accompanied by a wine from Mycroft’s collection that had the longest name Greg had ever seen on a label. There was no way he was going to attempt pronouncing that.

They talked a lot more than the previous evening, comparing their masseuses and experiences from the day, discussing their guesses for what Anthea had planned for them tomorrow, and Greg actually made Mycroft laugh out loud at some of the stories from his days on the beat.

They had agreed to drop dessert in favour of a selection of cheese and fruit and that was Greg’s downfall.

The plate included chevré, burrata, cheddar, stilton and brie, melon slices, apricots, figs and the largest grapes Greg had ever seen. Green and sweet and juicy. And Mycroft peeled them. _With.His.Teeth_. Apparently, he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. That was probably just how he ate grapes, Greg figured, and went back to staring, mesmerised. Mycroft seemed unaware of his audience as he chatted while absentmindedly stripping the grape of the skin, little by little before sucking the moist meat into his mouth with a contented sigh that made Greg echo it. Mycroft then picked out a piece of cheese before choosing another grape, starting the process again. The small part of Greg’s brain that was still functioning congratulated him on the fact that at least he wasn’t gay. _He was as not-gay as John Watson he assured himself, and then went straight back to imagining how Mycroft’s lips would look on various body parts, and then hurried up to think of Watson. No, of his wife. No, his ex-wife. Oh, stuff it. Back to lips._

“You’re hardly eating anything, Gregory. The selection is not to your liking?” Mycroft wondered.

“It’s wonderful!” Greg blurted out and slammed a piece of brie in his mouth, hiding his silly expression with a slice of melon.

When the last fruit was gone Greg asked if he could please have a cup of tea. He didn’t really feel like one this close to bedtime, but the fact was that he needed to remain still in his chair for a period before getting up. Of course, his wish was granted, and they both enjoyed a quiet cup.

Eventually, they made it upstairs, Mycroft yawning all the way. “Sorry,” he apologised. “The first day here always knocks me out. It must be all that adrenaline that has left my system. I hope you don’t mind if I go straight to bed?”

“Of course not, do sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Greg could have kicked himself for such an inane comment, but just smiled sheepishly and hurried into his own bedroom, wincing at himself as he closed the door.

Greg hoped he hadn’t seemed too terse when saying goodnight, but he really couldn’t wait to get to bed. He brushed his teeth rather too quickly and changed into his pyjamas. He slid under the covers, beginning to feel ever so slightly in control of his pulse again. Then his eyes happened on the little desk by the mirror and the basket of complimentary fruit on it. He noticed a bunch of grapes. He sighed heavily and shrugged resignedly while letting his hand slip beneath the elastic of his pyjama bottoms, seeking much-needed relief.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be hot sex in the next chapter. Promise.


	4. Good job we’re not gay!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A run, a dare, a triumph, a surprising development (to some). Some very warm and wet sex, and a lot of satisfaction.

_Ystad, 19 th April_

The morning was gorgeous. Deceptively warm as spring mornings can be, the sun playing off the waves making each summer yearning heart jump for joy. Greg woke from the warmth of the sun on his face and startled in bed. What time could it be? He quickly glanced at his wrist watch on the night table, wincing as he felt how sticky his fingers were. He sighed with relief though when he saw it was only seven fifty. A quick shower and shave and he’d be able to meet Mycroft for breakfast at eight thirty as they had agreed.

There was no sign of Mycroft in the suite, but when he got into the bathroom they shared he was hit by the moist, warm air betraying that another bather had just been there, emphasized by a heady aroma of sheer class. That was how he’d come to think of Mycroft and his scents. He couldn’t help but glance at the shelf by the mirror. He only recognized half the brand names of the array of aftershave, deodorants and eau de cologne, but he knew he loved the smell of all of them. Particularly on Mycroft. Which was very odd, given that he was definitely not gay, but rather apparently a very good connoisseur of scents. When scents were placed in the right environment. Right, well this shower wasn’t having itself now, was it. Greg set the temperature a little colder than he normally would. The spring sun and all to blame, obviously.

He didn’t see Mycroft till he got down to the breakfast restaurant, worrying his lips a little when he saw him heaping melon and grapes onto his plate. ‘ _Just keep a steady eye on the waves_ ’, he told himself, as he called out a cheerful “’morning” to his companion, being met with the trademark tight smile – but with just a hint of a warm gleam in the eyes. At least he was pretty sure there was something there that he’d never seen back in London. ‘ _Must be the absence of adrenaline in his system that makes him look that friendly,_ ’ his left brain told his centre brain.

At least breakfast passed without incidents, and Greg did pointedly not think about how he’d got himself off to sleep the night before, or how sticky his pyjamas had been, now in the hotel express laundry bag.

They went down to the spa after breakfast and had time for a leisurely swim in the warm pool before their scheduled massages. Greg suggested they may try the hot tubs surrounding the pool later, but Mycroft said he rather thought they needed to move, so they agreed to go for a run instead.

\--- * --- 

Greg had a different massage this morning. More in depth to the muscles, and a little more painful, which is why he was left alone, rubbed in scented oil and tightly rolled into warm towels listening to whale song for nearly twenty minutes. After that he was able to forgive any injury to his muscles and do it all over again. Which is more or less what happened when his masseuse returned, rounded of by a brain numbing scalp massage. He wondered if Mycroft was receiving the same treatment in his room next door, and if he felt as bowled over as Greg did.

He had a chance to ask him as they sat in the great room with the four-poster recliner beds afterwards. Today they had selected to sprawl in the big wicker chairs with soft pillows while they sipped their cucumber water, mellowing to relaxing music.

“Was it good?” Greg asked, his voice as mellow as the music. He idly wondered if the massage had extended to his vocal cords.

“Beyond expectation,” Mycroft almost panted, looking as boneless as Greg. “It always surprises me how much I need these treatments. My body responds as if it is a bow that has been over stretched. It is… always puzzling.”

“Hmm,” Greg wondered out loud, “are you very stressed in your work, Mycroft? You always seem so completely in control. Is there turmoil under the surface?”

“Oh, you have no idea, Gregory. No idea.” Mycroft answered with a tight smile.

Greg leant back in his chair, just sipping his water for a while whilst pondering the enigma that was Mycroft Holmes. The tough boss, the accomplished diplomat, the know-it-all, the immaculate dresser, the best smelling man in Whitehall, the deeply piercing eyes, the smooth controlled movements, the stiff upper lip, the lips on grapes. Oh _no, that was definitely a wrong turn_. He tried to get his brain back on track but an urgent question skipped to the front of his mind and before he could activate his brain- to-mouth filter he had asked it out loud. “Mycroft, do you have a girlfriend… woman… someone special?”

He heard a small gurgling noise as Mycroft navigated his glass of cucumber water, quickly followed by a discreet wipe of his mouth. “I … erm, I am a very busy man,” was the short answer, which informed Greg of exactly nothing.

Greg wisely did not pursue the subject, and they sat together in reasonably unconcerned silence for a while, basking in the afterglow of their treatments. It was nearly lunchtime before Mycroft stirred and suggested a trip downtown for lunch, and to get a tracksuit for Greg to run in. Greg had to agree, since he only had the one pair of underwear he’d left London in, and he desperately needed some more, so downtown they went.

They started with lunch at Store Thor, a restaurant located in a medieval setting in the basement under the town hall. The food and surroundings were outstanding, and as usual Mycroft’s conversation had Greg enthralled. There was no subject of which that man wasn’t an expert, he thought.

This time Greg managed to haul Mycroft into the general men’s store, since he was only getting underwear and comfortable clothes for a run. Thus attired they went back to the hotel and changed for the run.

By the time they got down to the beach it was nearly two thirty and the spring sun was baking down on them, though the air was comfortably cold. Greg set off at a leisurely stride but was quickly overtaken by Mycroft who set a murderous pace that soon had Greg panting to keep up.

They ran down the beach for half an hour before heading back again. The temperature had risen a bit, and there was not a cloud in the sky. They stopped outside the hotel, panting and smiling, exhausted but elated.

“You run like a bloody greyhound,” Greg chided him.

“Thank you, I think,” Mycroft panted, bent over, resting his hands just above his knees, stretching.

“Are you always the best at what you do?” Greg tried to sound less out of breath than he was.

“I try. That’s all we can really do,” Mycroft answered him.

“Hmm,” Greg looked around and got a wicked idea. “Swimming too?”

“You saw that. Yesterday,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Yes, in an overheated pool,” Greg grinned. “How are you in the ocean?” He nodded at the rolling waves.

 “Surely you jest! It’s April!” Mycroft protested.

“Aha! So there is a limit to the prowess of a Holmes,” Greg crowed.

“Certainly not. I am game if you are.”

“Oh, really?” Greg grinned. “Hang on here then, I’ll just run in to get us some towels, then we’ll take a dip.” He didn’t wait for an answer but ran the few paces to the spa entrance and grabbed a handful of towels from the shelves inside the door. He hurried back to the beach, gratified to see Mycroft looking a bit discomfited for once, but never the less waiting for him.

“Are you quite serious about this, Gregory?” Mycroft asked as Greg started to undress, leaving his track suit on the beach.

“Oh, very!” Greg reassured him, though he was already shivering. For a few seconds it seemed as if Mycroft’s eyes were firmly fixed on Greg‘s nipples, hardening in the cold air, but he was sure it was pure coincidence. Why would Mycroft stare at his body? He was hardly an object of desire for someone who could have whomever they pointed at. He shook it off and chided Mycroft instead. “Are you swimming in that, or are you getting undressed? You can keep your undies on, you know.”

Mycroft huffed and drew his sweatshirt over his head, letting it drop down to the sand, followed by his trousers. He visibly shivered and huffed at the cold, instantly hugging his own chest. “Let’s make this one a quick one, Gregory,” he called out as he turned around and sprinted into the water. Greg reacted as a cop on pursuit and was less than a split second behind him as the two nutters sprinted into the freezing water.

 The howls could probably be heard in the next town over, but they didn’t stop till they had reached a midriff depth of the water, both of them then plunging headlong into it, before turning and making a sprint back towards the beach that could probably have earned them a spot on the Olympic combined 100 meters track and crawl team. Mycroft only paused for two seconds to wrap a towel around his shoulders and pick his clothes up before running in through the doors to the spa. Greg was a mere heart beat behind him doing exactly the same. They only paused to throw their clothes to the side before head diving into the warm pool, earning them a round of applause from the other bathers who had seen what they had been up to through the large glass wall facing the ocean.

Greg huffed out a laugh of relief and elation, feeling like a wicked teenager who’d survived yet a ridiculous dare, his jaw almost hurting from smiling so broadly. Marvellously and miraculously Mycroft echoed his merriment. Greg had never seen him anywhere near this happy, his grin so broad it threatened to split his face, small tears trickling down his cheek from the laughing fits. They hugged each other in the warm water, and the other swimmers crowded around them, slapping their backs. A large bald man called out to the staff to bring a glass of champagne for everyone to celebrate the first spring swimmers of the year (Greg later found out that he was the owner of the hotel, which made him feel a little more at ease about the bill the guy would have to face after such a gesture).

Much, much later they emerged from the warm water, wrapping themselves in the ever present house coats and going back to their room to shower and dress for dinner. They both took a little extra time under the hot spray before emerging.

When they entered the restaurant they felt a bit like the local celebrities as people called out greetings to them and raised their glasses in salute. Gregory would have thought that Mycroft would recent such attention, but he almost glowed with British benevolence at its best as he waved and nodded back.

They were shown to their usual table were two filled champagne flutes awaited them. Mycroft picked his up before sitting down and turned to face the other diners, finding a face in the crowd he raised his glass and bowed slightly. Then he sat down, as did Greg.

“You know who that is from?” he asked.

“Obviously,” Mycroft said, and offered no further explanation, sipping from his glass, humming at the fresh and tart taste of the exquisite wine. Greg tried it too and had to clench his teeth to stop himself from moaning out loud as the wine droplets played a New Years Eve game with his tongue, setting off small explosive devices all over his taste buds.

His attention was quickly reverted to his dinner companion as a canon was set off. Or Mycroft sneezed. For a good two seconds he wasn’t quite sure which it was, but one look in Mycroft’s direction made it quite clear. “Oh, my! Are you all right?” He enquired.

“I will be fine. Simply a hint of a cold,” Mycroft sniffled. “I merely require some good wine and a warm meal. Please do not concern yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Greg was uncomprehending. “If I made you sick by a silly dare… I’d feel awful!”

“Seriously?” Mycroft looked up. “You truly would? But in that case I should be considered the fool for accepting your dare, and the fault would lie on me. Why should _you_ care at all?”

“Mycroft! Why should I care?“ Greg was horrified at the mere suggestion. What kind of upbringing had these Holmes brothers been subjected to? Sherlock often seemed to have the same response if he showed any kind of concern. “Because the dare was not about making you sick, or winning, it was… well, to have fun. I don’t want you to feel sick. I am gutted if you are. You brought me here for what is actually my first holiday in over a year. I haven’t had this much fun since my divorce began, and I repay you by making you sick? Yeah, I see why she left me. Sometimes I really do!” Greg grabbed his glass and downed half the contents.

“Wonderful. I have now given you insight into your wife leaving you. By indulging middle aged men in need of a challenge, making them feel too enthusiastic for their own good, and making them centre stage and hero for a day, without having to perpetually hide behind an official smokescreen.” Mycroft sat up a bit straighter and put his glass down hard. “Gregory! I don’t care if I get the flu for two weeks after this. I have NEVER had this much fun in my life, so do kindly get over yourself and stop feeling awful immediately. Or I won’t let you have pudding,” he grinned at the end of the tirade, making it sound a little less severe.

“Ah, well, but only if you’ll order,” Greg exhaled, relieved. “And I do want pudding; I need a lot of sugar after today. And so do you, you skinny bugger!” he added.

“So be it. Just this once.” Mycroft conceded and simply ordered the five course menu of the day for both of them, _hang the diet_! He asked the waiter to bring The Judge, a Napa Valley Chardonnay, from 2009 from the cellar for the main courses.

The courses started to arrive, and they enjoyed a summery white wine with the starters. They spoke at length of the town. Small as it was they had both found a special place in their hearts for it, comparing it to small coastal towns in Britain, finding a lot of similarities. The conversation kept coming back to their reckless swim though, and they shared some hearty laughs at their own silliness. Mycroft reached for the bottle of wine to refill Greg’s glass, just as Greg was trying to do the same.

“Sorry.” Greg immediately let go of the warm hand. “Didn’t mean to…. I really have forgotten my ways of…”

“No, fine. It’s…” Mycroft let go of Greg’s hand, but his eyes followed its movement. “Your ways of what?” He wondered, as he refilled their glasses.

“Of hanging, being with other people, being social, I guess. I’m a bit of a klutz, you see,” he sipped the wine, looking at Mycroft across the rim of the glass, “It’s been more than twenty years since I dated, for the past two or three years we were so at odds we never had anyone ‘round, and didn’t go see anyone else either. I must be bloody miserable company. I’m shite at conversation. I just sit here and listen to you, and you’re so bloody brilliant at talking and everything…”

“Not dated in twenty years?” Mycroft’s expression reminded Greg of a classical Greek statue. Unreadable marble. He _would_ pick up on that one sentence.

“Yes. Not dated. Is that odd since I was…. Oh bugger! No! Sorry Mycroft. I am not implying that we are …” He sat up straight in his chair, putting on his most serious detective face. “Bodyguard! Me!” He pounded his chest like Tarzan, and started to sing “And Iii-ee-iiii-ee-iii will always love y….” till he got slapped in the face by Mycroft’s tablecloth that had apparently been dipped thoroughly in the complimentary ice water. 

A split second later they were both roaring with laughter, while Greg dried his cheek with his own napkin.

“You do have some capabilities as a dinner companion,” Mycroft allowed. “You amuse me, no end.”

“I do? Thanks.” It was Greg’s turn to blush a little, warming himself in the compliment.  So he wasn’t a total loss after all. Good to know. His thoughts were interrupted by yet another explosive sneeze from Mycroft and he suggested that maybe a cognac would be in order after the dinner.

In fact, they both ended up having more than one, reaching a stage where they could be described as more than a little tipsy, and although Mycroft still had the sniffles, he no longer cared about them.

“So," Greg said cheerfully, "if this is how you treat people who are supposedly 'working' for you, I can't help but wonder what amazing things happen to people you actually date.”

“I do not date.” Mycroft’s mouth had volunteered the information without consulting his brain first. He wrote it off as an effect of the cognac.

“Never?” Greg leant forwards a little, lowering his voice. “I mean… how about sex then? I mean, honestly, it’s been over a year for me since my conjugal rights were cut off at home, so to speak, and I’m quite ready to tell you that I’m climbing walls. How do you manage?”

“Oh, sex! It’s so overrated.” Mycroft had also lowered his voice, recognising that the subject was a delicate one to most people. “It is quite easily handled, within reason. I take the precaution of advice from my peers, and twice a year I indulge in the luxury of a high class call girl. Usually someone from the higher echelons who’s family has fallen on harsh times and is seeking some alternate financing of their university degree. The current international financial crisis has expanded the market considerably. I only do it for peace of mind, though. I am not a wall climber, after all, but I take no great enjoyment from it.” He smiled his trademark tight smile at Greg, hoping that would close the subject.

“Right, so… well, you do. I mean you do actually… good to know. Good for you.” Greg nodded and downed the rest of his cognac.

As they got up to leave the table Mycroft was handed an envelope from the waiter. He looked at the card inside, and smiled. He recognized the handwriting of the hotel owner: ‘The private roof top Jacuzzi is yours for tonight. You may need some warm water after today. Champagne and extra towels are already in place. Enjoy. Try not to howl so loud at this water experience. xxx.’

“Would you care to join me for a warm bath?” Mycroft showed the note to Greg who grinned broadly.

“Would I ever. Our own Jacuzzi for the night? It’s only nine o’clock, too early for bed anyway.”

“To the roof then. Well, to the room to change, and then onwards.” Mycroft declared and led the way.

As Greg was undressing in his room, he suddenly remembered that he didn’t know anything about Jacuzzi dress code. He opened the door and shouted out to Mycroft. “What does one wear in a Jacuzzi?”

“As little as possible,” was the answering shout from Mycroft’s room. “Not swim wear,” he added, in case he hadn’t been clear enough.

Well, that was easy, Greg thought and just put the housecoat on, followed by the little slippers with the hotel logo and went out to join Mycroft. Together they found the entrance to the roof top with the sign “Private, no admittance – reserved for M. Holmes” on it.

When they got out onto the rooftop there was indeed a bottle of champagne waiting for them on a table next to the largish Jacuzzi tub, along with a basketful of chocolate dipped strawberries, and another small basket with a decoratively arranged supply of lube packages and condoms. An unsigned card wished them a ‘good time’.  Despite the subtle lightning around the little roof top garden it was quite obvious to Greg that Mycroft was blushing profusely.

“I am sorry. I do not know how he got that idea. I shall have a personal conversation with him in the morning,” he stammered.

“Oh, really! Take it easy Mycroft, it’s not that embarrassing. He saw two very good looking and distinguished gentlemen having a good time, and he assumed we were together.” Greg laughed. “I for one am quite flattered that he thought you were my… my…” Greg faltered, making a face, not sure what was the right terminology for gay relationships. _Date? Lover? Buddy?_

“You are?” Mycroft looked puzzled, but at least the blush was receding a little.

“Why wouldn’t I be? You’re quite the catch,” he answered, popping one of the strawberries in his mouth. Greg made a mental note to tell John that yes, the two smartest men on the planet could be as dull as anyone else at times.

"I am? Well, indeed.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows, which he was very good at. He poured two glasses of the champagne, moving them and the bottle to the rim of the tub before shedding his slippers and housecoat, climbing into the warm water in his birthday suit. He pushed the button that started the bubbles and sank gratefully down in his seat.

He smiled up at Greg, but had to quickly school his face into a blank mask as Greg removed his housecoat, revealing a very perfectly shaped arse, betraying both gravity and his age. "You're quite... fit," he swallowed and hurried to grab his glass and take a swig of it.

Greg couldn't help preening a little at the praise, making a perhaps slightly ridiculous show of getting into the tub. "Thanks, but it's a job requirement, not something that's just there. I have to work at it - more now than when I started!"

”Oh, tell me about it,” Mycroft agreed with a sigh.

"So, tell me. What do you prefer?" Greg somehow couldn't picture any of the Holmes brothers at a gym, but then neither of them were exactly buff. He'd always imagined something like yoga, or possibly some sort of gentler self-defense type... _Hang on, why had he been thinking about this at all??_

Mycroft abruptly looked a little stiff and formal to him, and Greg wondered what had happened now.

When Mycroft spoke, his voice was a little unsteady. "I would normally prefer to..."  he stopped talking and bent forwards as the bubbles in the Jacuzzi suddenly reached the off-cycle and the water stilled completely, becoming painfully transparent. He squirmed awkwardly away from Gregory, trying to turn his back in the round tub.

Greg had almost let his eyes slide shut from sheer enjoyment, but opened them again as the water stilled around them. He was faced with an uncharacteristically awkward-looking Mycroft, and was just about to ask what all the scrambling was about when it became rather obvious, even beneath the garbled surface of the water.

"Oh," was all he could think of saying at first, and it was a long minute before he followed up with "Hey, wait, where are you going?"

"Micronesia. On the first available flight," was the answer, delivered in a - for Mycroft - rather subdued voice.

"Wa'? What on Earth for?" Greg paused; taking in the spectacularly awkward body language in a person whom he didn't think had 'awkward' in his vocabulary. "Are you... embarrassed?"

"No end. Apologies," was the curt answer. "I have no control...," he almost whined.

"I don't think any man in history has control over his dick," Greg commented, trying to sound casual about it. "But can I ask... did I do that, or am I flattering myself now?"

"Of course you did. You have a spectacular body, tanned even now, supple, and muscular, you must have this effect on everyone, I suspect." He downed the contents of his glass.

"Erm, dunno about that. I just didn't think you were... looking," he said, waving a hand downwards.

"I did not know I was. Trust me, I am as surprised as you are. Almost.” He qualified. “Now if you will just let me collect myself for a moment." He closed his eyes and seemed to be concentrating.

Greg normally would have, really he would. Only, he was slightly tipsy, overheated and very, very curious. He wasn't aware of ever having that effect on anyone before; all his previous experiences had been with women, and they weren't as obvious with their desire as men were. He found it a little flattering, and scooted forwards until he could grab Mycroft's shoulder and turn him around to face him. "Really? I did that?" he asked, smiling to show he wasn't offended.

"You have a certain effect on me, even when fully clothed, I must admit. I just was not aware that my interest extended this far. And to this degree," Mycroft ventured a smile.

"That's... flattering," Greg admitted. "I mean, you basically have the entire world at your disposal. And you feel like this," he slipped his hand in the water to feel the prominent erection with a fingertip, "about me?"

Mycroft inhaled sharply, and stilled completely. "Poppycock," he panted. "I have nothing at my disposal."

"Excellent phrasing," Greg teased with a mock-posh accent. "I'd say you have quite a few inches at your disposal." Had he been sober, he might not have had the guts to do this, but he felt warm, heady and strangely happy, so he reached down and rubbed a calloused hand down the firmness there.

”Gregory, please.” Whether or not there was a ’don’t’ supposed to be added after ’please’ was drowned in a small whine from Mycroft as passion overrode sensibility, and he bucked into Gregory’s hand.

"Please what?" Greg asked, smiling at the response. He'd never touched another man apart from himself before, and it was a strange but not unpleasant sensation.

"Please... more." Mycroft panted, leaning in towards Greg's broad shoulder.

"Easy there, I'm new to this," Greg pointed out, but he laughed to take the edge of his words. The way Mycroft was leaning into him felt rather endearing, so he wrapped his free arm around the narrow back, trying to be supportive while he focused on how he liked being touched himself and applying it to another person.

Mycroft’s breathing became quite laboured in the warm water. He wrapped his right arm around Gregory and clung to his shoulder with the other hand. He already looked quite wrecked.

The proceedings where having an effect on Greg too, he noticed. He wasn't sure if it was the hot water, the alcohol, the feeling of having such a profound effect on someone so completely and usually unruffled or a mere sympathy reaction, but he had turned hard as a rock from mere body contact, and he tried to nudge Mycroft's head up so he could look him in the eye.

Mycroft responded to the nudge, looking deeply into Gregory's eyes, nothing to be seen in his own but total surrender.

"You know," Greg began, "I have no idea what I'm..." And then he was being stared at with eyes darkened by lust and lost his train of thought. If he had been doing this to a woman, the next logical thing would be to kiss. He assumed the same rules applied here, even if he wasn't sure, so he did just that.

Mycroft only hesitated for a split second before his mouth opened to Gregory’s. His eyes slid shut and he whimpered into the kiss, his bucking motions becoming a little erratic.

It was almost like a power rush, having someone responding so eagerly to your touches. Dizzily, Greg moved his hand more insistently, relishing in the shudders he was creating in the body pressed to his. He almost forgot to breathe through the kiss, but it hardly seemed to matter.

Mycroft kissed him back with the desperation of a drowning man, but suddenly his mouth went slack, his head fell back on Greg’s arm and his whimpers intensified till his entire body froze for an instant and then shuddered from head to toe as he released, coming into Gregory’s hand and the warm water.

Greg found himself laughing, out of sheer pride and surprise at his own daring, hugging Mycroft close to him in elation, not able to think of a single word to say quite yet.

“Oh God,” Mycroft panted heavily, lifting his head again, trying to remember good manners as he reached between Gregory’s legs, his long fingers slowly wrapping themselves around the surprisingly hard cock he found there, his need to reciprocate so much more than just politeness, but he immediately felt a hand on his, halting all movement.

“Sorry, no.” Gregory whispered, and sensed Mycroft’s disappointment. “You won’t get away with it that easily. I want more. I want all of you”. He smiled as he detected a tremble running through the length of Mycroft’s body. “And it’s going to be in the bed, on that thick mattress. I promise to help peel you out of it again. Afterwards.” There was an audible intake of breath from Mycroft. “Oh, you like the idea of being fucked into it?” Mycroft’s answering groan couldn’t really be called a word. Gregory smiled. “So do I. Oh, so do I! So let’s get downstairs. Right now!” He got out of the water, hissing as the cold night air hit his erection like the Titanic hit that iceberg, but his thoughts were still hot enough to maintain an imposing salute to Mycroft, as he turned to retrieve their housecoats.

Looking dazed, but happy Mycroft got out of the tub on unsteady feet and gratefully wrapped himself in the housecoat Gregory handed him. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words laden with more than usual gratitude.

"I think I'm the one who should thank you, and not just for the hotel stay," Greg replied. "Now hurry up, before I dry-freeze."

Mycroft nodded, also shivering in the cold air, but he remembered to grab the champagne bottle and the basket of strawberries. With a small shudder he noticed that Gregory brought the arrangement of lube and condoms. He hurried down the stairs and into their room.

Once inside the suite Greg was quite relieved to finally be able to close the door behind them, leaning up against it with a grin. "So, Mister Holmes, what the hell are you doing to me?" he asked cheerfully, trying to steady his wobbly legs.

”Seducing you, obviously, with food and drink, and my gladiator body. Glad to see it’s working,” Mycroft grinned, but then he got serious. ”But honestly, Gregory, I have no idea what’s going on here tonight. I mean, you are obviously a very attractive man, and I cannot within reason deny my response to that, but I can assure you, that I am not gay.”

"Well, neither am I. Should make for a winning combination, don't you think?"

"I do declare that you are doing splendidly so far."

“Why, thank you," he responded with a mock bow. "Now, get your freckled arse onto your bed, or I will carry you," he added with his best Detective Inspector-voice.

Mycroft seemed to contemplate the options for a moment, but then he headed for the master bedroom, carefully drawing the curtains before shedding his robe, crawling on to the big bed.

Mycroft got under the duvet, but Greg pushed it aside as he climbed in with him. "Please... lights off," Mycroft begged, pulling at the cover to hide his body. “I don’t want you to look, compare. Our bodies are so different…” he trailed off, seemingly embarrassed.

 “Now listen to me. You are supposed to be a smart man, but this is borderline stupid. Your body is gorgeous. Gorgeous I tell you! And I am going to fondle and kiss every inch of it. The next person in this room, including you, that says something negative about this body will be spanked. Understand?” Greg looked at Mycroft with his most serious expression.  He was rewarded with a shiver and a very tight smile.

"Ah, hell. If you don't believe me, I'll have to convince you!" Greg bent his head down, capturing Mycroft's lips with his own. It might be the first time he'd ever done this to a man, but it wasn't the first time he'd had to convince someone who didn't feel attractive that they were.

Mycroft melted entirely into the kiss and his body began to respond to the pressure of Gregory’s against his. Apparently even middle aged men could enjoy recurring arousal when presented with enough incitement.

Being rather new to the whole situation, Greg was determined to take his time and figure out what worked and what didn't. He mapped his findings carefully; such as the junction between neck and shoulder being very sensitive, earlobes VERY, VERY sensitive and apparently, men's nipples could be just as sensitive, if not more, than a woman's.

Mycroft was writhing beneath him, and his hands began their own exploration of Gregory’s body, roaming all over his back at first, but then getting more daring, touching the round buttocks, caressing the top of the thighs, digging into that wonderful silver hair. All the while he was emitting tiny excited moans, as if he was trying to hold them back for fear of embarrassing himself.

All Greg's little hairs where on end from the touches, going from light to more determined. He couldn't help grinding himself against a long leg, groaning with appreciation at the friction. "Don't you hold back on me," he said, mock warning in his voice. "We'll be doing this properly, and then I want to hear your voice - and so will the rest of town."

“Oh! Oh…fuck! ” Mycroft seemed to lose a bit of his control at that statement, clinging a little harder to Gregory. Looking for something to shut himself up with he decided to latch on to the neck, licking and sucking as if Gregory was the most scrumptious dessert he had ever partaken of, his hands finding a nesting place against the round buttocks, pressing Gregory firmly down on his body.

"You better have a clue as to how this is to go down, because I don't," Greg warned him, though his nerves were slowly being melted away by the searing heat that was consuming him. They'd be okay. He slid his hands all over the naked body beneath him, marvelling at the difference between both his own and the ones he was used to. More muscled, certainly, and a lot leggier. He could get used to this as well.

”No idea, really,” Mycroft panted, ”but if you want to fuck me into the mattress, as you so romantically put it, then I believe some preparation is called for,” he swallowed audibly, ”of me.”

"Do it while I watch?" Greg suggested, a naughty smile creeping across his face.

"Certainly not." Mycroft blushed, and stuttered. "I wouldn't know how to... I've never... Don't you?... I mean you brought the implements."

"Let's help each other, then," Greg said, feeling oddly calm in the face of Mycroft's uncharacteristic shyness. He reached over for the basket and grabbed a packet of lube, sitting up a little to nudge the long legs apart.

“Oh, shit,” Mycroft exhaled, spreading his legs with trepidation. This was definitely new territory for him. “Go easy, please.”

“I will, I will,” Greg assured him, spreading the lube against his right hand fingers. He spread Mycroft’s legs a little further and used his left hand to spread the buttocks a bit. He very slowly pushed his lubed up finger into the cleft, running it down till he felt what was clearly a very tight hole. He smeared lube around it, earning him a sigh from Mycroft, but when he tried to push the tip of his finger in, he felt Mycroft’s entire body tensing.

“I won’t hurt you.” He promised.

“I know. But I’ve never… I’ll try to control myself, I really will. Please continue.” Mycroft answered.

Greg pressed in again, but the body response was the same. “Right,” he said, “I think that what we need here is a distraction as the main manoeuvre continues.“ He grinned at Mycroft who looked questioningly at him while he moved further down the bed. He bent his head and licked a stripe from Mycroft’s left knee, all the way up the inside of his thigh, ending with a nuzzle at his scrotum. He didn’t hesitate a second before he continued the odyssey of his tongue, licking up Mycroft’s cock, taking the glans into his mouth as he reached it, letting his tongue play over it. It really wasn’t all that different from going down on a woman, he mused.

“For the love of little apples!” Mycroft howled as his head slammed back against the bed. 

Greg let the cock go for a moment, supporting it with his left hand. “Uhm, yes, now you’re talking. That’s how I want to hear you.” He bent back to his task, taking in as much of Mycroft’s cock as he could without gagging, marvelling at how quickly it hardened completely in his mouth. He licked enthusiastically around the glans, and meanwhile pushed the tip of his finger into the impossibly tight hole without any clenching this time. “adda u,” he  mouthed around the cock, humming encouragement at Mycroft. The sounds the man were making were very reassuring so he pushed his finger further in. He moved his finger back and forth for a while, feeling the tightness begin to give. Encouraged by the heavy breathing and small moans of pleasure from Mycroft he added a second finger. He stayed his fingers for a while, bobbing his head up and down, enjoying the effect this new movement had on the moans and whines. Then he pushed them in as far as he could, pressing up against the warm flesh. Mycroft suddenly bucked into his mouth with a yelp.

“Did I hurt you?” Greg lifted his head and immediately pulled his fingers back a bit, aghast at his clumsiness.

“If you stop now, you will never see daylight again,” Mycroft answered, with a slight tremor in his voice.

Greg giggled and bent down to take Mycroft into his mouth again. He played around with all the many possibilities a cock in his mouth offered. He hummed to it, he hollowed out his mouth around it, he licked and he sucked, and he was awarded by the most wonderful array of sounds and polite swearwords (yes, Mycroft managed that) from the man beneath him. As he added the third finger Mycroft was positively writhing on the sheet and it was getting hard to hold on to him. When he managed to find the same spot again, with three fingers this time, Mycroft nearly doubled over, and reached a hand down to push Greg’s head away.

“You must…,” he panted and tried again, “you must stop this now, or it will be game over for me. Please.” One look at Mycroft confirmed that the man was absolutely wrecked. Gregory pulled his fingers out carefully.

“Does that mean you are ready for me?” Greg asked, surprised at how thick his own voice sounded. He had tried rather hard to avoid thinking about what he was going to do, for fear that he wouldn’t last that long. He was so hard now that he was dripping on to the sheet.

“I shall never be more ready,” Mycroft assured him. “How do you want me?”

Those words went straight down Greg’s spine and then leapt to his cock. He could get used to hearing that. He looked at Mycroft with unconcealed desire. “Just as you are, on your back. I want to see you while I… Jesus… ok, I have to stop talking now.” He grabbed a condom and lube pack from the bedside and quickly rolled it on, tearing the lube pack open with his teeth and emptying it onto his cock, never losing eye contact with Mycroft. He was very careful not to apply too much pressure as he smeared it onto himself. He bent Mycroft’s knees, and spread his legs a little more. Settling between them he placed his cock at the now relaxed entrance. “Ok, I’ll be gentle,” he heard himself promise, as if he was with a virgin. Well, in a sense he was.

“Oh, Gregory,” Mycroft moaned, reaching a hand up to cup behind the detective's neck. “Don’t worry. I don’t,” he reassured him.

Encouraged, Greg pressed forwards, wincing at the impossible tightness, not stopping till he was half buried inside Mycroft. “How are you holding on?” He asked, in a somewhat shaky voice.

“It’s different. Strange, but not unpleasant. There is no need to stop.” He informed Greg, his voice none too steady either.

“Ok,” Greg acknowledged, slowly pushing all the way in. When he was balls deep in Mycroft he bent down for a kiss. They kissed slowly, but passionately. He enjoyed the leisurely dance of their tongues, but after a while his need to move became pressing. Without breaking the kiss he pulled back a little, and then in again, setting up a slow shallow rhythm.

After only a minute Mycroft broke the kiss and inhaled deeply, shuddering under him, panting as his fingers began to roam up and down Gregory’s body. “I would like … more.” He asked, closing his eyes, biting his lower lip.

Greg took this to mean two things, so he sped up his movements and deepened them, receiving an instant reward as Mycroft bucked up towards him. Before long he was slamming into the receptive body, and Mycroft was keening, eyes firmly shut, face and chest flustered and sweaty. He moved a hand down to touch himself, but Greg moved it away, replacing it with his own, supporting himself on one arm as his hand stroked Mycroft’s cock in time with his own rhythm.

“Oh Gr…oh, shit. Oh fuck! Oh Jesus!” Mycroft whined uncharacteristically under him, bucking into the hand. “I won’t last… Gregory! I’ll…”

“Yes, oh God, yes. Come. Mycroft, come for me!” Greg groaned, only now aware of how close he was himself. If only he could hold on a little longer.

In less than a minute Mycroft had to surrender to the onslaught. “Yes, fuck… now…now, now, now!” he bellowed, bucking up, and painting Gregory’s chest with his semen in long spurts of warm fluids.

Greg felt how the hole around him clenched in long spasms, and he temporarily lost his vision as he was carried mercilessly over the edge, shaking all over as he came and came and came inside another person for the first time in so long that he couldn’t even remember it. His arm was shaking, his chest was heaving and his legs felt like lead. But it was glorious.

He released Mycroft’s cock and collapsed bonelessly on top of him, panting hard, blinking his eyes to regain his vision, enjoying the tingling of his skin that seemed to go from cold to hot and back again. He started to pepper the chest under his with small kisses, muttering nonsense words of gratitude, before folding both arms around Mycroft in a tight hug, vaguely aware that Mycroft’s arms came up to hug him back.

They fell asleep like that. Neither had slept that well in donkey’s years.

 

_A wonderful drawing by the talented[Rykoe](http://rykoe.deviantart.com/)_

 

 


	5. Catching up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their third day in Ystad brings several surprises; a morning surprise, a massage surprise and a surprisingly sturdy dinner table.

_Ystad, 20 th april_

Mycroft woke to the odd sensation of someone snuggled up to him. That was a definite first for him, and he found the sensation surprisingly delightful, even when his brain quickly deduced that it could be none other than the Detective Inspector he had … dallied with, the night before. What a night that had been. Without opening his eyes Mycroft allowed himself a small smile as a wave of remembered significant moments washed over him. He flexed his gluteus maximus carefully, emitting a very small “oooh,” when he felt a soreness there that didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. He finally opened his eyes and looked at Gregory, asleep on his arm, his forehead resting on his shoulder. He was very fast asleep. The poor dear had also worked so very hard the previous evening that Mycroft decided not to wake him.

With smooth movements he managed to slide out from under Gregory. He reached for his phone and texted the restaurant, ordering breakfast to be brought to the suite. There was no way he was sitting down in front of other people before he’d had a swim and a massage.

He perched on the edge of the bed looking at the sleeping man. His heart gave a little thump thinking of the intimacy between them. He had never imagined that he would be had by another man. And, oh, how he had been had. He shivered as he remembered the surge of desire he had felt when Gregory had turned to him and touched him in the Jacuzzi, mingled with his embarrassment at having been caught showing such open want. He had never before been so aroused as to cause an erection, simply by seeing another human naked, and he was still surprised at the reactions from his own body. How the first kiss had drilled a hole straight through his soul and revealed more about himself than he had ever been able to face before. How horrified he had been for the one dreadful moment when Gregory had rebuffed the offer of his hand in reciprocation, only to be told that he wanted all of him. All! And not for one life-changing, universe altering second had he even considered refusing him. He knew he was ready to give Gregory everything he wanted from him, and he had been given so much in return.

He was so attracted to him right now that he was sorely tempted to just bend down and let his lips play. And why not? Well, he mused to himself, it could have been that it was only the alcohol that had made Gregory so amorous.  What if he felt very differently in the cold light of day? But then again, the alcohol percentage could not have been staggeringly high, not with the performance Gregory had been able to deliver. For once, probably the first time in his life, he wished his brother and his crazy home-lab was there. Just a wee blood test and he could scientifically appease his apprehensions.

His mouth nearly watered looking down at Gregory, but then he noticed some ungainly stains here and there. He snuck off to the bathroom and returned with a wet towel, exceedingly gently washing the dried semen away. He wondered if he was about to get his teeth kicked out, or worse, but nothing ventured, nothing gained he thought and dipped his head to take Gregory’s manageable cock in his mouth, marvelling at the soft texture as he let his tongue play around experimentally, but very quickly finding it less manageable as it grew under his ministrations. Gregory’s sound array went from soft snores to light moans, to a surprised moan. Mycroft steeled himself.

Next he felt a hand at the back of his nape, and he wondered if he was about to have his neck broken. But the fingers were gentle, and the words that followed reassuring. “Now that is a _good_ morning,” Gregory rumbled.

Mycroft just hummed in response, and earned himself a bucking Gregory. He put his hands on Gregory’s hips, holding him firmly in place as he really went to work. He tried to copy as many of the sensations Gregory had given him the previous night, but he really had no clue what he was doing. It didn’t seem to matter.

“Mycroft… careful,” Gregory warned him. Mycroft felt he was quite careful. He hadn’t bitten Gregory once, but in only ten seconds there was a second warning. “You … I… look out… Oh, Jesus! Fuck!” Mycroft did look up at Gregory at the warning and ensuing profanity but didn’t see anything. He couldn’t see Gregory’s face, his head was completely tilted back and his hands were tearing at the sheet. Next thing Gregory was keening like a wolf and Mycroft’s mouth was filled with a warm, salty not entirely pleasant liquid that he never the less licked around, even if he let most of it dribble out of his mouth. He kept licking and sucking till Gregory’s hands stilled his head and gently urged him off the waning cock.

“No way,” Gregory panted. “There is no way that was your first time. Can’t be.” Gregory’s chest was working hard at replacing lost and vast quantities of oxygen to his bloodstream.

“No, my first time was last night, but then the roles were reversed,” Mycroft admitted.

“Are you saying you took this from what I did to you?” Gregory ran a hand across his eyes, working to get his focus back.

“Quite.” Mycroft sat up at the edge of the bed, wiping his mouth with the unused parts of the towel, he then dipped it to gently clean Gregory off, again. “It’s not exactly quantum theory. It’s to do with pleasure.”

“I noticed,” Gregory groaned dryly.

“So,” Mycroft slapped him gently on the hip, “get up and have a shower. Breakfast should be laid out for us in the living room by now.”

Gregory paled a little. “Are you saying there was staff in the suite while I did an impression of a coyote?”

“Probably.” Mycroft shook it off and got up to retrieve their housecoats from the floor.

“If you’re going to dawdle, I’ll take the shower first,” he announced and swaggered off, a small smile of satisfaction playing at his lips. Teeth intact, pride upheld, and apparently more shagging to come if he read the signals coming off that boneless heap of detective on the bed correctly. And Mycroft always read signals correctly.

Gregory didn’t waste any time. He hit the shower only seconds after Mycroft, and proved to him again that he was really very very good at wanking. Particularly wanking a moaning Mycroft. Thus they both sat down to breakfast with a ferocious appetite, even though Mycroft sat a little gingerly.

They started their day with an hour-long swim in the warm pool, only just having time to dry before it was time for yet a massage session for both of them. Just before they parted to go into adjoining treatment rooms Gregory bent to give Mycroft a quick, sweet kiss on the cheek, whispering “Enjoy, see you later.” Mycroft found it ridiculous how deeply he had blushed at that small gesture, but managed to get his facial features under control before his masseur arrived and started on a deep muscle treatment.

He moaned softly with pain as his lower back muscles were worked through and his thighs were apparently a bit of a mess too, so his masseur placed him on his stomach, rubbed a heated oil on to most of his back and legs, got out a handful of warm towels, and covered him in them, tucking him in, telling him to relax for at least half an hour. Before he left the room he changed the soothing music to a disc with the sound of rolling waves, a sound Mycroft had always loved, and even more so now that he had spent a night of passion accompanied by that sound. Within ten minutes he had dozed off.

Things happened very fast then. He hadn’t heard the door open, so his scream was embarrassingly loud and high-pitched when a deep rumbling voice, directly in his left ear, demanded access to the sound tapes that ‘he had no business abusing so horrendously insufferably.’

The next instant the door flew open and Gregory hurled himself at Sherlock, not stopping till they both slammed into the far wall, Sherlock hollering in pain as his shoulder apparently dislocated. Mycroft crashed to the floor as he attempted to get up from the table, the wrapped towels hindering his movements. Not ten seconds later a Swedish Säpo cop ran through the door, brandishing a gun and telling everyone to freeze in exactly the positions they were in. They did.

“Skjut inte!” Mycroft yelled. “It’s ok. They’re mine. My men. Nobody fires, please.”

The cop stood down, pocketing his gun before walking over to Mycroft, offering him a hand up. Mycroft took it gladly, trying to wriggle out of the towels with as much decorum as possible. He wrapped one towel around his waist while he thanked the man for his help, and asked him to wait outside the door.

He turned to Sherlock who was clearly in pain, cradling his injured arm at an odd angle, trying to squirm away from a fuming Gregory. “I hope you have learned your lesson,” he began, then sighed as he knew very well he wouldn’t have. “Right, let me set that shoulder. Gregory, will you find some leather he can bite into, or something similar? I could use an anaesthetic cream as well if you can find any.” Gregory disappeared through the door, reappearing mere minutes later with a concerned masseur carrying the cream. Gregory handed Mycroft a leather belt and stood to the side, glaring at Sherlock, still looking pissed as an anthill that had been kicked once too often.

Mycroft opened Sherlock’s jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and very gently snuck a hand in, rubbing the cream on as far as he could reach. Sherlock was silent, but biting his lips. He looked very pale, and swallowed audibly when Mycroft offered him the leather belt, doubled over, presented to him at the height of his mouth. He nodded tightly and took it with his left hand, placing it in his mouth and biting firmly down on it. Mycroft gently pushed him down to lie on his back on the floor, then stood, placing his heel in Sherlock’s armpit and in one fluent movement grabbed Sherlock’s arm and had the shoulder pulled back into place with only one short, sharp, loud scream from Sherlock.

 Sherlock sat up, looking a little dazed, mollified when the masseur turned up with a glass of cognac for him. He sat against the wall sipping it when Mycroft knelt before him.

“Now, would you like to offer an explanation of why you have disturbed my holiday in this most crude fashion, and how you intend to remedy it?” Mycroft’s lips were wafer thin as he barely contained his anger towards his younger brother.

“I did not want you to ruin my good name with that defamatory sound bite that Lestrade sent to you.” He glared none too friendly at Gregory.

“And why would I do such a thing?” Mycroft sat down, cross legged and steepled his hands in front of his face, noticing Gregory doing an odd little double take. He’d ask him about that later.

“Ha!” Sherlock huffed, while putting the glass down and massaging his shoulder. “You wouldn’t miss such an opportunity, now would you?”

“As it happens, I deleted that sound bite before I left for Sweden, at the behest of the Detective Inspector. You may take this opportunity to thank him for that, before you apologize to me for trying to ruin my holiday.”

“Thank him?” Sherlock spat. “For what? He recorded it in the first place. And landed you in the trouble you are in now. Tell me, brother mine, how many times has he had you yet?”

“What?” Mycroft spluttered.

“Well, it is quite obvious.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And there’s no reason to look so demure, Gavin. You may as well sit down and put an arm around him, I can tell you are dying to. Oh, Mycroft, you didn’t think a little injury and a glass of cognac would dull my mind so much that I could not see the blatantly obvious? You have acquired a goldfish!”

“What the hell is he on about?” Gregory asked, frowning at Sherlock.

“Nothing! I’ll explain later,” Mycroft hastened to assure him.

He turned back to Sherlock, shaking his head in exasperation. “Well, it was your suggestion in the first place. May I suggest you look to your own aquarium and freshen the water? Perhaps even fill a gap in that black soul of yours?” He sighed heavily, as Sherlock looked sullen. “At least be reassured that your ‘angel-scream’ is no more. I have never used it, I never intended to and Gregory has deleted his copy. Your reputation is safe.”

Sherlock murmured a “thank you.”

“How did you find me anyway?” Mycroft inquired.

“Oh, that was easy. I told your secretary that our mother was dying and that you should hear it from me in person, rather than from a minion. Left her in tears.” Sherlock allowed himself a small smirk.

“Right!” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ”First thing when you get back, you are sending her flowers and an apology! Now, off to the A & E with you. I’ll get the Säpo cop to take you. We need a scan to check for axillary nerve damage. Then you can get a flight back to London and let me enjoy what’s left of my holiday. Remember to ask for a copy of the scan results for John.” He got up off the floor, and both he and Gregory gave a slightly dazed Sherlock a hand up.

Just before he left, Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, his eyes big and sad. “It will end in tears, you know. It always does for us. It will end in tears.”

Mycroft didn’t answer, but turned to find the Säpo man and ask him to take Sherlock to Lund University Hospital. They would hopefully make Sherlock wait for an excrementally long time for his examination, and bore him out of his skull.

He watched Sherlock go, still clutching his arm. Mycroft sighed heavily and turned back to Gregory.

“I am sorry. But it is hardly a surprise to you that my brother is erratic, unpredictable and mad as a hatter.”

“Oh, I know. Trust me,” Gregory sighed long suffering. “So what the hell just happened?” Gregory walked over to Mycroft, running his hands over his body, and for a second Mycroft stiffened, looking towards the masseur waiting discreetly by the door, but then he realised Gregory was just checking him for injuries. He smiled fondly, and took a step back.

“I am quite unharmed, I can assure you. Just a little blow to my pride that I let him surprise me so,” he said, while picking up the stack of towels on the floor. “He obviously thought I was still in possession of the sound bite you let me have, not that that is any excuse for what he did. We shouldn’t allow him to ruin our programme though. Will you return to your massage? I should like to finish mine. I find that today I have some tender spots that need attention. And you?” Mycroft said with as straight a face as he could muster.

“Hmm, a bit sore here and there,” Gregory admitted with a grin. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He bent to look at a little scrape on Mycroft’s elbow.

“I am fine, now scoot, you mother hen,” he smiled and crawled back onto his own table, nodding at the waiting masseur. “Shall we finish?”

Gregory grinned and bent to Mycroft’s ear, whispering “Well, if you want a happy end, just bang on the wall,” before disappearing out the door, leaving a red faced Mycroft to bury said face in the table.

Mycroft spent an agonizing half an hour debating with himself whether he should take Gregory up on his offer, but eventually deciding he was a teenager no more managed to get his hormones under control, and settled for the regular massage. 

\---- * ----

Dinner that evening was wonderful. Mycroft got a text from his office confirming that Sherlock had indeed sent a huge bouquet of flowers, and he was safely home in Baker Street. Mycroft went all out on his wine selection and had his last bottle of Wild Stag opened. He felt it appropriate, and Gregory certainly seemed to appreciate the rare wine. They had a marvellous steak dinner, both of them turned out to have a ravenous appetite, so they even went for a dessert before deciding to retire to their suite.

“Want to go for a walk on the beach?” Gregory suggested, but Mycroft waved the thought off.

“It’s too cold tonight. How about a cognac in the room?” Fact was, he didn’t want to share Gregory with anyone else on this their last night here. He tried to skirt the fact in his soul of souls, preferring to think of the night ahead. He felt oddly off kilter when thinking about going home. But that was hours away. And loads of Gregory to fill that time. He hung back a little to admire the finely toned arse as it ascended the stairs.

In the suite, he gestured to the sofa and Gregory sat down. He handed him a generous glass of cognac from the bar, and settled next to him with his own glass, warming it in the palm of his hand. He sat back to admire Gregory’s body once again, and said so. “You look fantastic in that suit. Best buy ever,” he smiled and offered his glass in a toast. Was that a blush he detected?

“Really?” Gregory preened a little, fixing the lapel, needlessly.

“Yes, gorgeous. Now how about taking it off?” Mycroft surprised himself with his brazenness, but he really rather wanted to get at the contents of the suit, sooner rather than later.

“Mycroft! You dog, you!” Gregory laughed. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Oh, nothing that subtle, let me assure you. I’m trying to fuck you. I have been waiting all day, and find myself in short supply of patience.”

“Well, in that case… shall I just undress, or do you want a show?” Gregory wriggled his eyebrows, somewhat charmingly Mycroft thought. The idea of a show was appealing but he opted for speed.

“Please just undress, in fact I’ll help you.” He deposited his glass on the table and reached for Gregory’s tie, deftly removing it before beginning to unbutton the shirt.

“Uh, impatient, are we? I’m flattered,” Gregory laughed.

“I don’t know if impatient is the word, but I have been of a mood since my massage this afternoon, and I have been waiting with decorum for a very long time, I feel. I would also like to reward you for the way you came to my rescue today, even though the assailant just turned out to be my baby brother. I felt very… safe around you.” Mycroft was in fact deeply moved at the way Gregory had thrown himself at Sherlock without any regard for his own safety.

“He’s not so ‘just’. Sherlock can be quite dangerous at times,” Gregory reminded him.

“Thankfully and usually not to me though. Now get that jacket and shirt off, and hang them on the chair. I think I would like to accept your offer of a little show with regards to the pants,” he said, leaning back in the sofa with his cognac glass, swirling the golden drops around before taking a swig.

Gregory actually blushed a little, and took a generous swig of his own cognac before getting up, and shedding shirt and jacket in one move, hanging them neatly on one of the dining table chairs. He loved the swish of the silk shirt as it slid off his arms. Smiling crookedly at Mycroft he kicked his shoes off, unbuckled his belt, popped the button and slowly, ever so slowly unzipped his trousers. He turned his back on Mycroft, lowered both trousers and underwear and bent over, sliding them down his legs, pulling them over his feet, one leg at a time. He turned back to Mycroft and winked at him as he removed his socks.

“My birthday suit, hope you like it. It may not be Armani, but…” Gregory trailed off.

“Oh, let me assure you that the design you are sporting right now beats all the great designers by a mile.” Mycroft felt like licking his chops, but years of breeding prevented it.

“And you? I feel a little underdressed here,” the very naked Gregory remarked to the very dressed Mycroft.

“Presently. In due time.” Mycroft promised him, getting up from the sofa, walking around Gregory, suddenly dipping his mouth to his neck, giving it a quick kiss. He let his right hand run down the length of the naked man’s body, from his Adam’s apple, across his nipple, down to rest on his thigh before pulling him close with his other arm, claiming his mouth in a kiss that started off sweetly, but as his hands roamed Gregory’s body he couldn’t hold back, and he plunged his tongue into Gregory’s mouth, claiming it with passion. Gregory answered the kiss with as much heat, his arms tightly crossed around Mycroft’s back. He was the one to break the kiss, pulling at Mycroft’s clothes.

“Off, not fair. Off!” He demanded, and together they fumbled their way through the layers of clothing till the garments lay in an unorganised pile next to the sofa. “Better,” Gregory acknowledged and pulled Mycroft back into the kiss, their bodies grinding together with growing intensity.

Mycroft was growing dizzy. The feeling of Gregory’s skin against his own was an aphrodisiac in its own right and it was going to his head. He ended the kiss and licked his lips, looking into the brown eyes he saw permission to do what he wanted so he excused himself, “just getting the lube and such, don’t move,” he explained as he quickly retrieved the little basket from the bedroom.

Gregory did as he was told and hadn’t budged when he got back. He put the basket on the solid oak dining table and turned back to his object of desire. Stepping closer to Gregory he let his hands slide down his chest, coming back up to pinch a nipple in each hand, smiling at the little painful gasp Gregory was unable to hold back.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” He asked, his interest in the proceedings becoming obvious.

Mycroft kept his left hand on the nipple and lowered the other hand,  wrapping it around Gregory’s erection, using his thumb to spread the little bit of moisture he found across the tip, before slowly stroking the warm, velvety skin.  “I want to take you tonight, if you’ll let me. But you will, won’t you Gregory? You’re already responding to me. Can I have you? Can I take you?” he asked in a low, sensuous voice.

Gregory visibly shivered, at the ministrations and the words, and simply nodded at Mycroft. His lips were slightly parted and his breathing was shallow as Mycroft turned him towards the big oak table.

“Bend over, and grab the edge, will you please?” Mycroft pushed him down gently, and ran his hand soothingly down the long, sleek back. He stepped up behind Gregory, and bent his lips to the nape of his neck, kissing his way down his spine. He knelt behind Gregory and kissed his buttocks, his upper thighs and the bend of his knees. Then he used his hands to gently spread Gregory’s legs, kissing his way up the inside of the left thigh, before turning his attention to the right.

Gregory’s legs were shaking slightly as he used his hands to part the buttocks, kissing the inside of them, letting his tongue play with the salt on the skin, before he adjusted his attention, licking the length of the crack between the buttocks, which earned him a moan from Gregory. He grew bolder and licked his way down again, circling the anus with his tongue, letting it playfully work in ever decreasing concentric circles until his tongue was still against the opening for a few seconds in which they both awaited the next move with bated breath.

Mycroft kissed the opening, so softly, ever so softly before he pushed his tongue slightly in. He withdrew it and placed another demure kiss there, and then he pushed his tongue in again, a little deeper this time. The taste was musky, with a hint of chlorine from the pool. But mostly it was Gregory. Lots and lots of Gregory, and Mycroft wanted more.  No kiss followed the push this time, he just let his tongue rest inside for several seconds before pushing it in even further, wriggling it around a bit. Meanwhile he let his hand play with Gregory’s balls, rolling them in his fingers to the rhythm of his tongue. He heard a shuddering sob from Gregory and pulled out a little, and then plunged in again. As far as his tongue would reach. He alternated between licking around the hole and pushing into it for a few enjoyable minutes, until he realised that Gregory’s legs were shaking quite badly. He sat back a little to check. “Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.

“I’m… oh, fuck. Mycroft... I’m…“ Gregory cleared his throat and tried to get his voice under control. “Just… don’t keep that up much longer unless you want me to shoot a load at the dining table, ok?”

“Oh, is that all?” Mycroft smiled, relieved. “Just hold on a little longer. Feel free to clutch the table if you like.”

“What do you think I’m doing now?” Gregory whined at him, his knuckles white with exertion.

 Mycroft didn’t answer. His mouth was already occupied, eating away at Gregory with relish. He hummed into the opening, and had to quickly place a supporting hand on Gregory’s leg when he saw the right knee buckle. With regret he pulled back, just licking around the hole for a little while before pulling back and standing. “I guess that will have to do for tonight, then. Now for some serious business,” he said as he took a lube pack, spreading the contents on his fingers.

“Now…? Now you’re getting serious?” Gregory moaned, and took a step closer to the table, so his chest could lean more firmly on it.

“Shh, just take it easy,” Mycroft soothed him, his fingers rubbing lube on the already relaxed opening, gently pushing one finger in, finding access quite easily. He added another and moved them gently in and out.

“Gregory?” he asked.

“Yes?” Gregory answered in a hoarse voice.

“I’ve never felt a man up like this, I mean I know the theory, but I don’t’ know where to go. Will you guide me?”

“Oh, Jesus!” Gregory moaned. “Like I’m the expert… but right… keep going, a little deeper. No, deeper. About there, and now see if you can sort of bend and push down towards the table a li…..Oh! Fuck! Yes! There! Easy, easy, not so hard.” He hit his forehead on the table, and cradled his arms under it instead. “Yup, you’ve pretty much got it.” He swallowed heavily, bracing his legs a little firmer on the floor.

“Aha, thanks.” Mycroft said with gratitude and immediately set to abuse his newfound power by adding a third finger, pressing all of them down against the prostate, but lightly this time.

“Mycroft Holmes!” Gregory admonished.

“Just a little more, want to make sure I don’t hurt you,” Mycroft said, moving his fingers slowly and softly in and out, but he had to admit to himself that this foreplay would have to come to a rapid conclusion, or he would not last to enjoy the fruits of it. He had never been this hard in his life and his cock was dripping pre-come onto the floor, simply from the sight and sound of Gregory, bent and displayed so beautifully for him.

He pulled his fingers out and grabbed a condom, ripping it open with some difficulty as he found his hands shaking with need, finally rolling it onto himself with unsteady fingers. “Are you ready? Can I?” He wasn’t too proud of the fact that his arousal was so very obvious in his voice.

“Please, now, just please…” Gregory moaned and arched his back, sending as strong an invitation as he could think off.

Mycroft did not hesitate to accept it and stepped behind Gregory, aligning himself and pushing in as slow as he could. As it happened he ended up pushing in somewhat faster than he had planned, but it was as if Gregory’s body was consuming him. In no time he had penetrated him fully, and looking down, could savour the sight of his shaft buried in Gregory’s body. He forced himself to hold still for a moment.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispered as he pulled back only to push slowly in again. He repeated it, but still no protest from Gregory, just some panting. He tried increasing the rhythm a little, and Gregory’s pants changed to moans. “Any pain?” he asked, fighting to hold back an intense desire to move.

“None. Good. It’s all good.” Gregory moaned, his voice raspy. “You can fuck me, I’m no porcelain doll.”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft smiled and took the words to heart, moving for real now, slamming into Gregory. He knew this speed would not allow him to last long, so he bent down to take Gregory’s cock in his hand, stroking it in time to his movements. He felt a reaction immediately as the hole clenched around him, and Gregory moaned louder.

“God yes, Mycroft. Please, faster. Faster. I’m really getting there.” Gregory warned him as he wrapped his hands around the sides of the table, holding on tightly as he was pummelled from behind.

Mycroft couldn’t see much, for the sweat in his eyes, but he didn’t care. He felt. He felt everything. He felt Gregory all around him, his velvety but rock hard cock in his hand, heard his increasingly loud moans and felt how his orgasm was building. His thighs were shaking, his groin was burning and his skin tingled everywhere. “Gregory, I’m about to… I’m…. Come? Come? Will you?” He managed before sensation cut off his voice.

“Fuck, yes! My… My… Take…me!” Gregory wailed before words seemed to become impossible and he spilled over Mycroft’s hand, grasping the table for dear life, his knees buckling under him.

“Yes, yes!” Mycroft echoed him as he felt Gregory tighten around him, milking him, it was marvellous. His vision blurred and something happened to his knees, he wasn’t sure what but the next moment he found himself on the floor with an armful of Gregory on top.

They lay there for a while, both of them shivering slightly, fighting to catch their breath. Mycroft couldn’t help but run a soothing hand up and down Gregory’s sweat-drenched skin, marvelling in its texture. He couldn’t believe he’d never tried this before. Screw being straight, if this was being gay.

“Shower?” He faintly heard Gregory suggest, and he nodded, slowly crawling up from the floor, using the table for leverage. He really liked that table.

\--- * ---

After the shower they dried each other off, and then brushed their teeth together. It had a very homey, cosy feel to it, Mycroft thought, not that he had much to compare to. He grabbed one of the housecoats to wear to the bedroom, and found a phone in the pocket. “Oh, not mine. Is this yours?” He held it out to Gregory.

Gregory laughed, not too nicely, Mycroft noticed, as he juggled the phone. “Thanks," he said. "I’m gonna need that.”

“You did it again, did you not, you madman?” Mycroft giggled.

“Yup.” Gregory grinned back, “but this time I intend to use it as a ringtone. That was some scream when you reset his arm.”

“We’ll talk about this over breakfast.” Mycroft assured him. “Now come to bed, you suicidal moron.”


	6. Holmes, angsty Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing what lonely is now, is a pain in the heart. Does Gregory have a remedy?

_’This will end in tears, this will end in tears, this will end in tears’._ The words kept rolling through his mind even as Gregory shifted slightly in his arms. _Yes, of course it will_ , he admitted to himself. _I shall be home tomorrow. Back home to reality. Back home to ... nothing. Damn Sherlock_! He knew his younger brother had lashed out because he was lonely deep down; a concept Mycroft was both familiar and unfamiliar with. He had always been alone, but he had never considered himself lonely. Till now, that was. Now he finally understood the distinction, and he damned himself for it. He could not delete this experience from his mind, so now the abyss of loneliness lay deep and dark in front of him.

He had felt a hint of it for the two years Sherlock had been away, but unlike John, who had almost broken completely in the interim, he had known that Sherlock was alive and out there. He had been able to keep a discreet and weather eye on developments in Eastern Europe. Enough to know that there was progress and life.

This was different. This was infinitely worse. Three days with Gregory was all it had taken for the huge walls around his inner courtyard to crumble. He had fallen for the allure of sexual pleasure and with that a whole slew of feelings had followed. He had allowed himself way too much latitude, and let his heart (and his cock, to be quite honest) rule his mind. He had basked in the admiration and friendship, the love and the incredible sensations. He, who had always been in complete control of not only himself, but everyone around him. How deep would he fall before he could begin the climb back to his old self? Would he dare to look into his soul and ask just how much he was going to miss Gregory? Could he handle the answer? He took a deep breath, almost a sob. _Too loud, too loud_ , he admonished himself, but too late.

"Wassgoingon?" Greg mumbled, sleepily.  
  
“Nothing,” Mycroft whispered, mindful that Gregory might not be as observant as a Holmes, but he _was_ still sharp-eyed, and _damn, he was actually waking up now_ , apparently attuned to Mycroft’s distress.

"Mycroft? What's wrong? You look terrible." Gregory’s brown eyes were quite alert now, and staring directly at him.

Mycroft hurried to reassure him. "Nothing... it's nothing. It’s just a little indigestion. You sleep. It's... I really want tonight to just be pleasurable. Please just sleep here?"

"I was sleeping here," Greg pointed out, pressing a little closer. "Indigestion doesn't look like this," he said quietly. "You're upset, and if I can stop it, I will."

Mycroft smiled and huffed a little, too damn observant after all, that detective. "I'm sorry, Gregory. You have already given me so much. What I need is not in your power to give me."

"Try me." Greg fixed Mycroft (as much as he could in the semi-dark) with his ‘no nonsense’-stare. "I might surprise you."

"Sweet, you are sweet but even you can not turn back time. I have opened Pandora’s Box, and the floodgates prevent me from closing it again. The spectre of loneliness awaits in my mausoleum of a house in London, and I must live with it. Only now I know what's missing. It is not a prospect I relish. But it is not your problem. I brought it on myself," he sighed.

Greg propped himself up on one elbow, frowning. "Are you saying you think this ends here? That I'll dump you and run back to my glamorous life of 14-hours shifts, microwave dinners and an empty apartment without a second glance?"

"Yes, of course. We have had our holiday. You have done me a great favour by making it so special, but now your life beckons... which I so blatantly interrupted. And mine... mine awaits as well. Maybe some time next year we could go somewhere together again, if you’d like?" he asked, hardly daring to hope.

"Mycroft, you moron," Greg moaned. "First of all - you didn't interrupt my life. You bloody kick-started it, after I thought I'd just 'exist' for the rest of it. I've had a great time; the food has been amazing, the place is gorgeous and you... well," he grinned, "you have been all of that and more. Why the hell would I want to cut that off when we go home?"

Mycroft was flabbergasted. "You'd want to see me again, back in London?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Greg asked. "I promised you we'd go running, remember?"

"It's just something people say…" Mycroft pfft’ed.

"I meant it. And…” Gregory actually looked shy, “well, bloody hell if I don't want to do more than that. I enjoy your company, hasn't that gotten through your, surprisingly given who you are, thick skull yet?" 

"You mean you want to pursue a sexual relationship?" Mycroft wasn't actually sure he could survive a regular dosage of Gregory, but he was definitely game to try. 

"Well, yeah, that'd be rather amazing. But I'd like to, you know, hang out, as well. Oh hell, call it 'date', then. Anything, really." 

"Date?" Mycroft’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling. It took his mind 1.2 seconds to go from _'unfamiliar concept_ ' to _'what do you think you've been doing for the last 3 days anyway, you idiot?_ ' "Yes, yes, I suppose we could date. I could take you to the club... if you'd like?" 

"That'd be great. I could take you to meet my guys - now don't give me that look, they're a decent enough bunch! - and we could ask John and Sherlock out on a double date, just to annoy them." He laughed. 

"You may want to back up one step there, but yes, ok, I'll try a publican’s house. I have done it before, you know. Anything for ... well, being with you." He hugged Gregory tight to him, inhaling deeply from every bit of skin he could get close to. 

"Moron," Greg said and wrapped his arms around Mycroft. "Were you lying there in the dark worrying about this without saying anything to me?" 

"I was going to say fondly goodbye." He smiled a sad smile. 

"Man, you're a blockhead." He smiled, but then he sighed and laid his head down on Mycroft's shoulder. "What kind of friends have you two had, since you always assume people want to get away from you?" he asked quietly. 

"Friends?" Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow. 

"Jesus, Mycroft," Greg huffed. 

"No, not him." Mycroft answered, deadpan. 

Greg laughed and poked him in the side. "Idiot. I've had the best time with you that I've had in donkey's years."

 "It must have been a very bad divorce," Mycroft conceded. 

Greg shrugged. "Well, it was. But don't try to talk yourself out of the fact that you are great company, because you are. Yes, you are." 

"Well, thank you. I am grateful that you find it so. And the... sex? You find that satisfactory too?" Mycroft held his breath. 

"Oh, GOD yes," Greg groaned and stretched up for a kiss. 

Mycroft answered the kiss enthusiastically, trying to imagine an unlimited supply of _this._ His mind reeled, and he involuntarily moaned a little too loud.

"I see you're not opposed to the idea, either," Greg grinned and pinned Mycroft to the bed with his body.

"Oh, you're very awake now, I see." Mycroft smiled and arched up towards the broad torso, relishing the feeling of skin against skin.

"Well, someone woke me." Greg mock-shrugged and smiled.

"I'm so sorry, again. I really was trying to avoid waking you. Not that I regret it now." The smile would have rivalled the morning sun had it been about, but it was hours away.

 “ _Never_ avoid waking me if you're upset," Greg growled, dipping his head for a deep kiss.

"Mmmh," Mycroft agreed wholeheartedly, melting into the kiss. He was beginning to feel another kind of rise and a distinct warmth spreading through his body, and he arched up, bucking into Gregory's groin seeking contact and friction.

Greg groaned and answered with a downwards press of his own before reaching in between their bodies, bringing them together with long, slow strokes. "What do you want?" he mumbled into Mycroft's neck, voice a little unsteady.

Mycroft swallowed with difficulty and tried to organise his thoughts. He couldn't, so he opted for status quo. "Just go on, please, don't... don't stop. This is... oh shit, so hot. I can feel you, soft and hard." He arched his head back on the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, exposing his neck and panting heavily.

"I have no intention of stopping," Gregory said, and kept on stroking them together, but after a while it was clear that he needed more. "On your stomach," he whispered, "I want you."

"Again?" The rush of excitement that flowed through Mycroft resulted in small shivers down his spine and he quickly complied, turning over, biting into the pillow, trying to control his rampant want. _When had he become this?_ Oh, didn't matter, as long as he could keep having it.

"Again," Greg confirmed, He bent down to pepper Mycroft’s body with kisses and licks and the occasional nip, nuzzling against the soft, warm skin.

"Uuhn, no, don't wait... want you inside me," Mycroft murmured, somewhere on the fringe of his mind wondering if vocabulary was hormonally controlled.

"You're not in charge right now, Mr Holmes," Gregory said, his dark voice belying his wide grin. He slid down the bed, spreading the cheeks in front of him wide with his hands.

"I'm not what...?" Mycroft's lust-addled mind could not quite grasp the concept of not being in charge, but his body didn't seem to mind, it went pliant under Gregory's hands and he shivered again with expectation.

Greg laughed. "Not," he said, dragging his tongue around the exposed hole, "in..." He did it again. "charge!" he finished, stabbing the tip of it right into the puckered opening.

"Oh!" was all that came out of Mycroft’s mouth. And then he heard an even louder "OH!" from the same source. So this is what it felt like. No wonder Gregory had shook like an old leaf last night. Instinctively he got up on his knees, giving better access, wholeheartedly supporting the proceedings.

The position allowed Gregory to reach around Mycroft and stroke him while he played with his tongue on his arse.

Mycroft inhaled sharply, nearly choking on the pillow when he felt Gregory's warm hand around his shaft. The tongue on his hole was driving him mad with desire, and he started to buck back onto Gregory's mouth and forwards into his hand. He would not last long like this, but he had no words to explain this fact, his mind was reduced to sensing, rather than thinking. All that escaped from him was increasingly desperate moans.

"Lube," Greg ordered, accentuating his command with a deep, sharp stab of tongue.

"You don't...won't... need it," Mycroft panted. He felt quite wet and ready, and he could not wait another second. "Please?" he whined.

"I don't want to hurt you," Greg pointed out, raising his head but keeping his hand in motion. "Are you sure?"

"Sure. So sure." Mycroft panted, reaching back with his right hand to part his buttocks for Gregory.

"Oh Jesus." It sounded like that completely did Gregory in; he rose up on his knees and started a slow push in, his hand not slowing down but small stars exploding in front of his eyes. He'd never felt anything quite so tight before.

"Oh God! Oh God!" Mycroft was having a minor religious experience, his body and mind completely taken over by arousal, desire and raw lust, overlaid by a glowing sensation of togetherness. There was pain, yes, but a sweet pain, just enough to stave him off coming embarrassingly soon. He wanted to feel Gregory inside him, utterly filling him, coming inside him, warming him with his semen. And then the pain was gone and he moaned loudly with nothing but utter want.

"Holy sh..." Greg began as he was sheathed balls-deep. He wrapped both arms around Mycroft for leverage, and, pausing just a second, began a delicious slide and push into the waiting warmth.

He took up a slow, rocking motion, pushing Mycroft till he lay down fully, lowering himself over him, letting his cock slide in and out, pushing in deeply and angling his thrust to draw a shuddering moan out of his lover with every push. He kept it up for more than twenty minutes, by which time Mycroft was a trembling puddle of flesh beneath him.

"Gregory?" Mycroft’s voice was unsteady and needy. "I’m going to come… I really… I'm feeling so close." Completely untouched Mycroft’s cock started to ooze come in a slow, steady stream. He pushed back towards Gregory as far as he could, impaling himself a deeply as possible, moving raggedly, taking himself on Gregory, taking Gregory, exploding the world, filling himself while he felt the relentless orgasm endlessly but oh, so gently, curse through his body.

 As Mycroft contracted around Gregory the sound of his broken voice completely did Gregory in. He came with a hoarse shout and many curses, trying to piston his hips for as long as he could. In the end he was shaking too hard to go on, so utterly spent he collapsed fully on top of Mycroft.

Mycroft burrowed his face into the pillow, which did not promote his oxygen intake, but he didn't care. Couldn't really care. He was still shivering, and he wasn't entirely sure that he was completely done with his orgasm. His crotch still felt like there was a minor volcano having a conniption there, and as yet a shiver racked the length of his body another small spurt of ejaculate came out. He moaned happily, rutting a bit into the mattress, smiling into the pillow. He lay there for quite a while before he finally managed to turn his head enough to get some air, and pant to his lover. "So, we are done with condoms now? I'm glad. You feel fantastic."

If he hadn't just come rather spectacularly, that would probably have set Greg off all over again. "Jesus, My," was all he managed to say, sounding utterly lost for breath. One arm was still around Mycroft, and it squeezed him gently.

"Yes, heavenly," Mycroft agreed.

"We're SO doing that again," Gregory said. "Bloody hell, if only all sleepless nights were like this."

"Well, we are a couple now, right?" Mycroft said, through heavy intakes of air. "And couples don't need such excuses. So yes, we are indeed doing that again. My turn on top next time though, I think. But Gregory, 'My'?" he smiled wryly.

 "Oh, yeah, the name... sorry. I was out of breath, and it seems to fit. You're mine, aren't you? _My_ lover. right?" He laughed against Mycroft's back, then added “ _My_ back,” and kissed it.

"Oh, sweet Jesus!" Mycroft rolled his eyes at his new honorific, knowing full well he didn't have a chance in hell of staving that off. "But only in private, ok? Mycroft to the world, but you, my dear, can call me anything."

"Oh, the Iceman doesn't want pet names in public?" Greg laughed. "You're right, it _might_ do things to your level of scariness if I run around calling you ‘Puddicat’".

"No, no. Puddicat is fine, just not Mypuddicat," he qualified, with an almost straight face." As long as I can call you detective darling to your staff."

"You can call me 'puss' if you like," Greg promised him. "Do you want me to, erm, move?"

"No, don't move. Let's just sleep. Right here. Stay inside me for as long as you can, please. I feel... fine. Just so fine."

"Certainly an improvement," Greg said and kissed his shoulder, and settled his head on it.

\-----* ----

Mycroft woke early. The sun was just rising and Gregory was not. He was lying heavily across his chest, and as lovely as it was, it was also hard to breathe. He poked lightly at him.

"Mmmnh", Greg complained. He cracked an eye open, but the lid looked far too heavy so it fell shut again.

"Sweetheart?" Mycroft whispered, trying on the word, sampling it in his mouth, finding it quite palatable and very fitting for his silvery god.

"Mmmmh", Greg said again, sounding more alert this time. "Morning, love."

The response to the endearment was automatic and felt pretty damn good, as did the kiss he pressed against the warm skin above him. "Good morning," Mycroft managed to extract an arm and stretched it, yawning mightily. "Actually awake?" He queried.

"Not sure," Greg admitted, sighing. "M' cmfotable. Am I crushing you?"

"A bit," he allowed, "but I enjoy it."

"Care to enjoy it while kissing me?" he asked, finally opening his eyes and smiling sleepily.

"Mmh," he agreed, turning his face to capture a pair of lips.

Greg sighed happily into the kiss, quite happy to just let it go on and on. John was bloody right; Holmeses were addictive, he thought, but he'd be damned if he ever admitted it to the man.

"Oh. You're the most marvellous kisser," Mycroft acknowledged as he broke the kiss for the sake of breathing. "I could spend the entire weekend here just kissing you.”

"What's stopping you?" Greg murmured against Mycroft's lips, looking at him from beneath his lashes.

"You want to stay?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I think I could live the rest of my life exactly like this," Greg admitted and stretched luxuriously

"Could we just start with the weekend?" Mycroft grinned. "Seriously, shall I check if the suite is free?"

"Oh God, yes," Greg groaned, his face splitting in a grin at the mere thought. "And do call my superior. I'd love to see the look on his fat face when he hears about this."

"I won't have to. It's Friday today, we could just stay the weekend, fly home Sunday. Would that be satisfactory for you? And when I say home..." he smiled.

"You mean your place?" Greg smiled again, like a giddy teenager.

"No. I mean our place," Mycroft smiled broadly back, an autoresponse he apparently had developed to Gregory's smiles.

"I like the thought of that." Greg put his head back down, voice contemplative. "I haven't really had an ‘our place’ for a very long time."

"Actually, it might be a good idea to spend the weekend here and give the staff a heads up at home, which reminds me..." he trailed off. "We have to talk." Mycroft extricated himself from the embrace, sitting up against the headboard, hands characteristically steepled.

Greg just stared at him, looking apprehensive.

"This not-gay thing? It has got to go, I'm afraid.”

"Oh!" Greg exclaimed, relief visibly flooding him. "Yeah, yeah. To hell with that."

"In a handbasket, yes. You see, I can not allow myself to be a potential victim of blackmail in any form, do you understand?" Mycroft sought eye contact with Gregory.

"It's the same for me," Greg said and shrugged. "I've always been pretty open with personal stuff."

"So you won't mind if my office sends out a press release?" he checked.

Gregory stared at him. “I can’t bloody figure out when you are serious, and when you are joking.”

“And I hope you never will,” Mycroft smiled.

\---- * ----

Much later, as they were among the last guests in the breakfast restaurant they finalised their plans. They would tell friends and colleagues quite openly that they were now lovers, mindful of the issue that Sherlock apparently already knew.

Mycroft figured his staff would be quite shocked, but then again, they would be equally shocked if he announced that he had bought a tweedy bird, so he wasn’t too bothered.

“I’m actually rather looking forward to seeing Donovan’s reaction,“ Gregory said, “she will probably think it’s another Aprils Fool joke. I’m going to have to take loads of pictures of us this weekend,“ he told a horrified Mycroft.

“Do you think Sherlock told John?” Gregory asked, idly trying to pick up the last marmalade from his plate with a bit of croissant.

“Probably not. These things don’t occur to him as having any significance on his work. Possibly if he feels that our association will affect his case load with you, but otherwise, he had probably deleted the information before boarding his flight home,” Mycroft pondered as he carefully cut into a moist orange, dividing it into small pieces, eating them with his fingers in small deliberate bites that made Gregory look quite wistful.

“Oh, then he probably hasn’t told John about the injury either,” Gregory pointed out. 

“Good point. He should actually know about that and follow up, give the old shoulder a poke. Could you text him about it? No, wait. I should. But…“ he gestured at his sticky fingers.

“I’ll type, you dictate.” Gregory said and took Mycroft’s phone from the table.

“Yes, would you? Very domestic.” Mycroft smiled.

“Sure.” Greg set John Watson as the recipient, and waited for the dictation.

“Dear John”, Mycroft began.

                           “ _Hi doc_ ”, Greg typed.

“You may be unaware…”

                         “ _You prolly don’t know…”_

“That Sherlock sought me out in Sweden, in a private matter…”

                          “ _that your idiot flatmate_ _nearly ruined our holiday in Sweden for no bloody good reason_ …”

“In the process he got injured when the umerus got separated from the scapula…”

                         “ _and earned himself a dislocated shoulder…”_

“By the hands of my travel companion and bodyguard.”

                            “ _getting slammed deservedly into the wall by my new fuck toy_.”

“He should in fact have brought home a medical file…”

                             “ _He has a doctor’s note he’s hiding from you_.”

“Which he should hand over for a follow up.  Will you check? See you soon. MH”.

                            “ _Get it off his hands, and give the bugger a once over, thanks. Stay cool. – MH"_

Gregory pressed ‘send’ and smiled up at Mycroft.

“Did you get all that?“ Mycroft checked, as he continued on his orange.

“More or less,” Gregory smirked.

Mycroft’s phone pinged. “Oh, is that John already?” Mycroft asked, ingesting yet a bit of sticky orange.

_"Who are you, and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes? – JW"_

“Yes, indeed, just a follow up question really,” Gregory fibbed and answered John.

                        “ _I’m the fuck toy. See you at the pub on Thursday. Have I got news for you – Gavin_ ,”

he typed out.

The phone pinged again almost immediately.

_"Greg? Wtf?"_

Gregory laughed, closed the message window and put the phone back on Mycroft’s half of the table.

 

\---- * ----

 _London_ _, 23 rd April_

They had joined the Mile High club so spectacularly that _they_ had to explain to the pilot that there had been a series of air pockets over the North Sea. He of course didn't believe a word of it, even though they both really had the gift of the gab.

Leaving the airport late Sunday night, they stopped  at Gregory’s small flat just long enough to pick up some underwear, a few case files, his toothbrush, shaving kit and a couple of spare shirts. Mycroft silently swore to give them to charity as soon as possible. Gregory never spent another night in that flat.

Gregory had never seen Mycroft’s house before, but he loved it at first sight. Mycroft’s butler had never seen a Detective Inspector up close before, but he welcomed him warmly never the less. He immediately knew that his life would be so much easier in the future, even if two gentlemen entailed more work. He was never proven wrong.

Greg went around the house opening each room as if they were Christmas presents. He loved the library, he howled at the huge fireplace in the living room, he had wicked wicked thoughts when he saw the four poster bed, he thought of Sunday roasts with Yorkshire pudding, and fresh baked bread when he poked around the enormous kitchen, he gaped at the led windows in the dining room and he couldn't wait to get Mycroft dirty in the bathroom. In fact, he fit into the house as well as a chesterfield sofa.

And no one was in the least bit surprised when they won the “Great British Bake Off for Couples”© two years later.

 

The happy end… for now

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now 6 parts of this series. If you’d like? 
> 
> Thank you to Distantstarlight for Beta reading and inspiration, and kicking the whole thing off.


End file.
